#Stiles Stilinski fluff | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

star--stilinski · 2 months ago

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at first, stiles didn't even notice it. the way his heart would race and his cheeks would flush; he was used to having that reaction around you. so used to it, in fact, that he had stopped letting it be a distraction. you'd giggle at his joke or look up at him through your lashes and he'd blush, fidget, move on. like his own little routine.

what got distracting was when he had made the sudden realization one day: you're hot.

the two of you had been friends for so long, crushing for almost that whole time, that by the time stiles looked up and saw you in your bikini, it was too late to turn back. he was a goner.

literally-he was out of lydia's backyard and in her half bathroom before you could even ask him to help with your sunscreen.

holy shit. he gripped the sink, glaring at his flushed reflection. get yourself together, perv. so she's got nice tits. really, really nice tits and thighs that could suffocate you and jesus her hips-

no! nope, no no no nonono. it is way too early for this. get real. she's seen you recite the entire opening crawl of the force awakens. she is not going to do that with you- woah! or that! get it together. get it together. get it together.

and so stiles marches back out where you and your friends are gathered, playing marco polo. you glance at him and smirk in that way the tells him you're totally cheating, only proven true when allison calls out "marco!" and you slide past her in the water without joining in the choruses of "polo!"s from all over the pool.

stiles stiffens. your goddamn smirk.

this is going to be a loooong day.

☆

and it was. a long day that ended in his right hand wrapped around his cock and a fantasy he wouldn't repeat even if there was a gun to his head.

but that was over, and it was three days later, anyway. the pack was meeting at the movies to see a new romcom, which the girls were excited for, and the guys were... hoping it had a good soundtrack. it's not that they didn't want to go, it's just that their time- well, stiles' time could be better spent on things like useless research and avoiding his homework. that was his mindset walking into the theater.

now, he's about three inches from having no mindset at all. you're sat next to him, too close for him to remember a single detail of the movie, and you're wearing a tank top. low cut. lace trim on the top. prettiest color he's ever seen.

and stiles can see straight down it.

every time he glances over at you, whether it be an excuse of reaching for the popcorn or making a joke or listening to you talk, he has a view down your top right to where your tits are pressed together, rising and falling subtly with each breath. he wonders what the smooth skin of your breasts would look like covered in hickeys. he imagines the sounds you'd make if he had you pinned down, mouth enveloping your pert nipples. he-

he gets up a little too hastily when he rushes out of the theater, into the quiet hall.

"god," he mumbles, tugging his own hair. "fuck."

he has to will his blood to cooperate before he can show his face again.

☆

it's getting worse.

stiles is chewing on the cap of the marker he has in his hand, eyes darting all over his murder board.

"wouldn't they hunt in packs? this fable here, it reads... stiles?"

stiles turns on his heel, watching you now as you sit on his bed. he's been avoiding looking at you lately, since just recently he had a close call when you hit your knee on scott's coffee table and whined a dramatic 'ahh', leaving stiles to imagine that noise, that face you made in other scenarios.

it's been harder (ha, ha, yeah, no pun intended. he's struggling.) since you asked to come over and help with some research he was doing after a meeting with deaton. you sat all pretty and focused on his bed, twirling and tucking and sometimes tugging your hair when you read out of a book he had borrowed (stolen) from the argent's.

so when he looked at you now, it was with great mental strength. especially when you started rattling off a really smart point he didn't think anyone else would notice that he had realized twenty minutes ago, giving him some time to zone out and watch as you gather your hair behind you, tying it up in a ponytail while you look up at him through your lashes. giving him a second to imagine you looking at him like that with your lips wrapped around his cock, letting him guide you by the ponytail-

stilinski! great. mental. strength.

he turns back to the murder board and nods, eyes squeezed shut as he feels the familiar heat spread all over and his jeans get tight. "yeah, that's- i know, that's a good point."

he hears you shift, the way you get noticeably quiet. "stiles, are you... is everything alright? you seem off."

he shrugs, nods, shrugs again. swallows. "yeah. just a bit tired, that's all."

he can feel your disbelief, but he'd rather feel that then disgust. you both sigh at the same time, and the evening moves on.

☆

it's pretty much every time he sees you now. he's a mess, unable to choose between relieving himself and willing his dick to cooperate. you've made a mess of stiles, and he's dying.

you're wearing leggings today, talking to scott while stiles watches from the bench. coach is barking orders at a couple of stray lacrosse boys, and stiles is lucky enough to have dodged his attention this evening.

game night is usually when he's free of the hold you have on him, too busy gnawing on his goalie gloves and tracking scott across the field. but you and allison showed up early (curse scott and his happy relationship), so his pea-sized brain has time to imagine sliding the buttery fabric down your legs, kissing exposed skin as he goes. he'd definitely pay close attention to your thighs- he thinks about those more than he'd care to admit, and he's aware of how idiotically insecure of them you are.

because of his train of thought, he doesn't realize you've caught him staring until it's too late. you're prancing over excitedly and leaving scott to smirk at stiles all knowingly, and stiles resists the urge to flip him off.

"you gonna play, 24?" you nudge his foot teasingly with your own. he looks up at you and feels those telltale signs as he fanaticizes about tracing the line of your jaw with his finger, both of you panting softly as he coos at you while you whine pathetically. he has to blink away the thought before he can speak.

"um, i hope not. it's an important game." he leans back a bit and you tilt your head, clearly mulling over your next words. he fills the space in the meantime. "but if i do, i'll be sure to keep away from the ball."

it's music to his ears when you laugh. finally, finally he's blushing about something normal, having regular fantasies instead of these hormone fueled pornos that seem to be on repeat in his head lately. he smiles up at you and you take a small step closer to being in between his legs.

"i don't mean to bring it up so randomly..." you avoid his eyes, fiddling with your hands. "but i was just wondering if i've done something to upset you?"

he blinks. "what?"

"it's just that you've been distant and honestly, you're acting kind of like you're allergic to me. if i did something or there's something going on just tell me. it's kinda driving me crazy." you ramble, brows drawn together in discomfort.

stiles' eyes widen and he shakes his head, standing. his heart skips a beat when you have to tilt your chin up a bit to keep his eyes. "no, of course not. i didn't know... i guess i've... it's just-" he sighs and rubs the back of his neck. how is he supposed to explain this? 'oh, hey, girl i've been super into for a pathetically long time, i've been imagining what you'd look like if i pinned you to my bed and drove us both insane from a sex marathon! that's cool, right? not objectifying at all!'

you frown, crossing your arms. "just tired?"

it's bait, he knows it is. the same excuse he used less than a week ago to keep you from figuring him out. you're a clever girl and he's stupid when he's horny, so he has to play his cards right here. if you think he's lying, things will only get worse and there's a hefty chance you'll distance yourself. but if he tells a lie a little too well, you're going to be around him constantly again. either way, he's starting to wonder if he's a masochist from the amount of pain he's going to inflict on himself.

"it's nothing, really. i didn't mean to get distant." he clenches his jaw as he gauges your reaction, which is a less-than-ideal-but-not-terrible pout. he wants to smooth the lines of your forehead with his thumb and make you laugh again, but he has to focus. "let me make it up to you?"

you turn your face away (very, very not good) and huff. "no, don't worry about it."

stiles cringes internally and bites the inside of his cheek. how can he un-dig this hole he's in? "no, no, i want to. i shouldn't have made you worry. that's my fault. i'll pick you up tomorrow, we can get food. my treat."

you turn back to face him, and the way your bottom lip just barely juts out tells him you're playing it up, but he doesn't mind. he's come to realize that you like to feel earned, and he's more than happy to earn you. he takes a breath, eyebrows raised. "what are you thinking?"

you drop the pout (much to his relief, he was just starting to imagine you using that face on him when he makes you tell him exactly what you want him to do to you) and put your hands on your (perfect, sexy) hips. "i'm thinking that if you didn't mean to get distant then it was subconscious, and it's going to be more of an effort to be around me than not."

so clever. god, you're so hot when you use critical thinking skills.

stiles sighs and shuffles a bit. "yeah, okay, i can understand where you're getting that but it's wrong-"

"but it isn't. you've been proving it right all week and-"

"hold on, no i haven't, i've just been-"

"-you definitely lied to me in your room a few days ago-"

"-there's no way you're actually believing-"

"STILINSKI!" coach's voice booms over both of you, halting the beginning of an argument that probably would have only turned stiles on more. he whips his head around to where the entire team is gathered, and realizes he was so wrapped up in you that he tuned out everything around him, including the team rallying together to talk strategy before the game started. he blinks, distantly hearing you mumble a mortified "oh." and skitter off, leaving stiles to be completely embarrassed alone.

"would you like to join us or are you too busy harassing the young ladies in the general area?" coach's tone is strung with impatience, eyes wide.

"ah..." stiles glances to the spot you just stood in and then back to the team. "no, coach, 'm coming."

"fantastic." he drawls, before turning back to the team and continuing his rant. stiles is half-listening, half-daydreaming about 'making it up to you' in many different ways, positions, and places. for many hours.

yeah, he's dead. for sure. you're killing him.

☆

although making it up to you currently involved a lot more clothing and a lot less begging, stiles was having a really good time. sat in his room, arguing about book to movie adaptations, both of you holding your own milkshakes. with all his time spent avoiding you out of... sex-driven fear? he really forgot how much he enjoyed your company.

"you wouldn't get it," you shake your head stubbornly as he stands and sets his milkshake on his desk so he can use the dry erase board in his room. "you don't read books."

"i do-"

"yeah, i don't count the bestiary."

"that's besides the point, anyway. i don't have to read the book to know whether the movie is a good adaptation or not!" he starts writing down movies he knows are heavily based off of books while you crawl across his floor to his desk, sneaking a spoonful of vanilla ice cream and whipped cream. he's too busy to notice that the half-melted treat dribbles off of the spoon and spills above the cut of your tank top (the same one as the movie theater, actually) and onto your exposed thighs.

"fuck." you hiss under your breath. stiles turns to see what caused your quiet outburst, but his brain screeches to a halt at the sight of you.

perched on your knees, you're glaring down at the mess that's been spilled on the top of your tits and thighs, white sliding down to the line where they're pressed together. stiles doesn't even blink, just stares with a slightly open mouth at the sight of you. a small noise leaves his mouth and he can feel the tent in his sweats, but he's a bit frozen.

you look up when he makes the strangled grunt, looking caught with his milkshake in your hand, as if that's his issue right now. "uhh... whoops? i swear, it just flew into my hand! how crazy is that...."

your joke trails off as you really see his face. his eyes are dark and hungry, almost predatory as they sweep over your body, hanging on the spills that you made. his mouth shuts and his jaw clenches. his hands are curled into restrained, white-knuckled fists. and...

he's hard as a fucking rock.

it's easy to tell, with his grey sweatpants, and you feel your mouth water at the sight.

"it's fine." he mumbles, voice dry. you take a second before you realize he's talking about the milkshake. both of you are bright red. you force out a breath and he seems to come to, turning back around quickly. "uh, s-so, harry potter-"

"is that because of me?" you blurt, getting hotter in the cheeks every second.

"is... oh. um, i'm sorry, sorry, fucking shit-" he's not facing you.

"stiles."

stiles quiets, turning to face you finally. your stomach swoops and you shuffle barely closer. his adams apple bobs.

"yeah. it... it is"

that's it. a simple confession, but it feels like a chord being snapped between the two of you. your confidence grows. you made stiles like that.

"are you gonna do something about it?"

his head snaps up, eyes wide as he looks at you. "you want me to?"

"why else would i ask, stiles?" you sound almost exasperated, like he's taking to long. he swallows and drops to his knees in front of you.

stiles. is crawling towards you. on his knees.

"are you... do you really?" he's close, so close now. looking into your eyes like they'll answer for you. like they contain every 'yes' you've been too scared to whisper.

which, honestly, is probably not far from true.

"i do. i really, really, d-"

his lips are on yours before you can finish, one hand cupping the back of your neck to bring you closer. you let out a muffled noise of surprise, mouth opening on it's own accord as stiles takes the kiss deeper, tongue exploring your mouth hotly.

"you're impossible-" stiles gasps, going in for more before he can finish. "-to be around-" his teeth nip your bottom lip. "-when i can't have you."

his lips leave a wet kiss on the corner of your mouth, so passionate that he misses, and he continues that trail onto your neck until he finds the spot that makes you squirm. his hands go to your waist, pulling you closer and knocking your knees together. you feel dizzy with want, barely registering his words.

"what-" you gasp, blinking and leaning into his demanding mouth. "what is that supposed to mean?"

stiles groans against the skin of your neck, kissing lower, closer to the sticky mess you made just minutes ago. "i can't think... can't even... fuckin'... breathe when you're near, y'look so pretty. j'st wanna make you-"

he interrupts himself again, opting instead to lick the ice cream off the top of your tits like he's starving. you gasp as the feel of his tongue against your skin, pressing your thighs together to try and relieve some of the sudden pressure shooting down your stomach to your core. he's barely making sense and he still has you all foggy brained, swaying just a bit under his touch.

"you-you've thought about this? befo- oh-" you stumble, as he tugs lightly against the low cut to give himself better access to the sweetness melted onto your skin. he laughs, seeming to clear up a bit.

"yeah. you kidding me? i've basically been-" he's kissing back up your neck now, seeming to track a path to your lips. "-perpetually hard for the past three weeks."

you swallow thickly and he captures your lips. stiles tastes like vanilla ice cream and it's the most tempting sin, luring you over the edge. enticing you to do things you'd normally pretend you weren't into. he runs a hand down the side of your body, squeezing your hip lightly. "you're torture, you know that?"

"i could say the same to you."

he smiles at you, like a sap, like a saint. you feel your mind fall into his hands and your heart nestle against his ribcage. you no longer belong to yourself. you never have. and neither does he, it seems, as his eyes wander all over you.

"wanna move to the bed? i can clean up your thighs..." his tone is low, clearly suggestive in a bad-pickup-line way. you nod, giggling girlishly and stiles hauls you up to gently lay you back on his bed, tugging your tank top off on the way. his eyes linger on your chest before moving along, kissing a wet trail down your body as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your shorts. "god, look at you. you're gorgeous."

it's not like you're wearing lingerie and sexy makeup- you went to stiles' place to lounge, so you're wearing your lounge bra and some comfy shorts. stiles looks at you, though, as if you invented beauty. he sighs contentedly as he pulls your bottoms off slowly, eyes drinking in your stomach and hips and thighs like you're the first woman to have them. once he's got them far off enough, his hands press your hips back down and his eyes meet yours.

"not to late to back out. well- obviously it's never too late, it's just... okay, this is me asking for consent. i was trying to make it sexy, but it sounded a bit rapey."

you laugh breathlessly and nod at him where he stands, towering above your almost-naked form. "stiles, please stop talking and fulfill both of our fantasies already."

stiles grins and tugs his shirt halfway off before stopping abruptly. "wait- both?"

you roll your eyes. "stiles, why would i be so... so..."

"obedient?" he offers with a cocky smirk. you flush.

"agreeable, if i didn't want this?" you nibble your lip as he pulls his shirt the rest of the way off his body, getting on his knees at the edge of the bed and spreading your legs. your body moves pliantly under his hands. the sight of it all is downright promiscuous.

"well," stiles presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. it would be sweet if not for the sinful way his eyes are preoccupied with the wet spot on your panties. "i heard girls find consent sexy. maybe i screwed that one up a bit. what do you think is sexy?"

he asks in that absent tone that tells you he's storing away information as he kisses further up the inside of your thighs more fervently. you let out a breath that feels too shaky too early and watch as his pink tongue swipes out to lick up some ice cream spill. it makes you clench around nothing.

"any day now." his hand is gently rubbing your thigh as he moves to lick and suck almost crudely at your other thigh.

your eyes narrow slightly. "gimme a second."

he gets closer to where you're literally soaked for him, nibbling lightly at the plush flesh of your inner thigh. you shove down a low whine of impatience to avoid your already growing embarrassment.

"your attention to foreplay is- i like it." you admit softly and he hums, licking a stripe of ice cream out of the way. taking a second to think, you continue. "i like the... the desperation. how you took me without really... um... i like it when you just do what you want, i mean."

it's difficult to form a single thought once stiles presses a kiss against your clothed clit, being sure to add plenty of pressure. almost like a reward. "what if you don't like what i want? will you tell me to stop?"

you nod, chest rising and falling heavily with every breath. you glance down at stiles, and a small sound leaves your lips when your eyes catch his hand down his sweats, slowly stroking himself. he flushes.

"you.... can't i help?"

he lets out a small moan and his eyes flutter as he halts his movements. "i don't- i don't have a condom."

against all better judgement, you shake your head and thread your fingers through his messy hair. "it's okay. just pull out, yeah?"

his brows shoot up, and you wonder for a moment if he's about to cum in his pants. but then he nods and rises, standing in between your legs now. his fingers deftly tug off your panties, pocketing them in his sweats (for "safe keeping") and his lips part silently once you're exposed to him.

your legs begin to close, feeling suddenly too naked and too insecure for his hungry eyes, but his hands catch your knees easily, even giving you a little tap as a sign to scoot further onto the bed.

before you comply, curiosity takes over and you tug at the strings on his sweatpants. "wait, what about you?"

he tilts his head. "what about me?"

you narrow your eyes, fingers dipping under the band. "can i take these off?"

"oh!" his brows shoot up, as if he forgot about himself altogether. "oh, yeah, of course. please."

you waste no time pulling his bottoms off, his cock springing out. it's flushed and leaking, looking properly erotic in the dim lighting of his room. your eyes flutter up to meet his and you wrap your hands around him, pumping twice.

stiles moans, hips twitching into your hands on their own accord. "holy shit."

part of you just wants to finish him that way, positively fucking hooked on the look he has, pleasure pinching his pretty face all tight. he pants and pulls your hands away, eyes squeezing shut for just a moment. "y're gonna make me cum, holy shit."

"i'm sorry, you just..." you fluster, laughing a tad at the both of you. he shakes his head, though, so you fall silent and let him crawl over top of you, kissing you deeply. he unhooks your bra with a bit of struggle and you both have to cooperate to get it off of your body. you giggle, and his eyes are locked on you as your smile slowly fades.

"don't be sorry," his voice is gentle, "i've imagined that so many times it should be criminal." he kisses you again and you feel his fingers graze along your stomach. stiles pulls back far enough to see your whole face and you wonder why- then his thumb is circling your clit.

the high-pitched gasp you suck in is not as embarrassing as the louder whine that leaves your lips once he's slid a finger into you, eyes closing for a moment to soak in the bliss. it feels like heaven, for a long moment. but his fingers are slow. too slow. and even when you cant your hips, he doesn't speed up enough to have you seeing stars (like you know he can). instead, he has you writhing impatiently. "you're... stiles, please."

it's whiney and pathetic, but stiles seems to stifle a smirk when he hears it, covering it with a sympathetic pout instead. "i know, pretty girl, i know. you gonna ask nicely?"

and you knew you gave him permission to do whatever he wanted. but you didn't expect to be into it. your lips part and you almost tell him to shut up and fuck you already. but you're hot with embarrassment and something else he can totally feel when your walls clench around his torturous fingers. so instead, you opt for falling right into his hands.

"please, stiles, fuck me already." you whisper, lips brushing against his when you speak. "please."

"there we go." he presses a peck to your lips and slips his fingers out. "such a good girl."

you aren't given any time to process that and the fact that it made you throb like a personal whore- stiles is already swiping his tip through your folds, making you gasp when it catches on your clit. he's panting heavily as he lines himself up, and you're a little surprised when he finds your hand and laces his own against it.

then, he's stretching you open and you're seeing stars, just like you knew he could make you do.

stiles is sweet, but he's not exactly gentle. hips rolling into you and his tongue pressing against your own. a hand pinning you to the bed and keeping him upright, the other tweaking your nipples or teasing your clit. he's all over you, pulling back every once in awhile to watch the way you arch your back and gasp out unintelligible pleas. his moans are about as pathetic as yours and he hisses "fuck" into your ear when you clench around him tightly. your dance goes on like this for a moment, and he's rambling horny nonsense constantly.

"stiles, 'm close-" you whimper, free hand pulling him closer by the hair. he gasps out and his hips snap roughly.

"yeah, me too. jesus, you're so perfect. look at you." he pushes some of your hair out of the way, eyes meeting yours. "you gonna cum for me?"

you nod, eyebrows turning up as you feel the warmth crawl up your belly. your free hand tugs at his mussed up hair again and his expression matches yours. he speeds up and you gasp and whimper, pliant under his body as he fucks you into his mattress.

"stiles, fuck, stiles, i'm-"

"that's it, there you go, hooooly fuck." he holds your hips down when you finish, rutting into you with an open mouth. he's got his forehead pressed against your own, swallowing each others desperate moans as he rides you through your orgasm. stiles' moan is sudden and loud when he pulls out in a rush and finishes on your cunt, his tip pressing into your overstimulated clit and making your legs twitch.

you gasp out a breath and sink into the mattress, sighing contentedly. when your eyes flutter open on heavy lids, stiles is gazing at you. he leans down and kisses you, soft and sweet and full of a confession long coming.

"that was..."

"amazing." he finishes dazedly, hands running over your bare skin anywhere he can reach. "want me to use my mouth?"

your brows raise. "stiles, i just came."

"i know." he sighs, playing with some of your hair. "it was so fucking hot."

"you said you've been perpetually hard for three weeks?" you attempt to change the subject, but stiles only grins wider.

"yeah, so i've got plenty more fantasies to play out before i'm out of steam."

you shove him lightly, fighting a flustered smile. "just- give me a second, you dog!"

"awooooo." stiles deadpans an imitation of a howl, nuzzling into your neck. "let me know when you're ready. i'll just be here. naked. on top of you. in the mood to make you pass out from orgasms. willing to learn every kink you have- which, hey, the praise kink was a good guess, right?"

you groan, pushing him off of you. your face is flushed red and you snatch his nearby discarded t-shirt when you sit up. "that was so out of left field."

"yeah, but was it? i mean, you-"

"i'm getting in the shower, stiles." you stand and take a few steps away from him before you turn to gauge his reaction.

his eyebrows shoot up from where he sits on the bed. it makes you bright fucking red when his eyes trail down and he watches a bead of his own cum slide down your inner thigh. he licks his lips.

"i'll come with."

☆

this is from the vault, so if you've read it already, that's why! don't be afraid to interact with it anyway, i love crazy readers and feral responses sjdjsaskdj

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bamboozledbird · 4 months ago

Text

𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒏 𝒈𝒐 // stiles stilinski imagine Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader, Scott McCall, Lydia Martin, Isaac Lahey, Malia Tate, Kira Yukimura, Allison Argent Pairing(s): Stiles x you, Word Count: 8.9k Tags: human!au, fluff, childhood friends to lovers Warnings: there are a few little nsfw mentions in the middle, so MDNI. Stiles does go out on a window ledge, but i have to make it clear he has no intention ever of jumping lmao.

A/N: this is basically just one day i thought what if stiles had a nick x jess first kiss because he seems stupid and awkward enough to jump out a window. and thus this nonsense was born. also the pov switching was new, so you’ll have to let me know if you’re a fan or not.

The thing is, Stiles isn’t an idiot. He’s stupid, but he isn’t dumb. He knows that it’s not normal to think about your best friend like this. That being so intensely attuned to the curve of her spine when she stretches or the hint of citrus that clings to her hair after she showers isn’t exactly platonic.

And he really doesn’t want to be that guy. You know, the guy who just wants more, who gets upset when he can’t have more—the guy who can’t be friends with the girl who doesn’t love him back. So. Stiles stuffs it down. Deep down. And he’s content to die like this because he needs you.

There are other girls. Boys too, after a latent discovery freshman year ( one that surprised no one but himself ). They come, and they go, and Stiles makes due with what he can have because he knows this is how it has to be.

But they aren’t you.

A blatant fact that ruins anything real before it even has the chance to start.

So here he is: 24, single, and perpetually in love with one of his three roommates—but, hey, at least he does his own laundry now.

Stiles watches you on your bed, sitting on the floor like a child, while he pretends to work on a case report. He feels a little like a child too, the longer he stares at you—like a little boy with his hand in the cookie car.

He plays with the fluff on your rug to keep his hand busy, tugging on it a little too harshly when you pull your hair back with the scrunchie on your wrist. Stiles feels like a cretin when his eyes follow the rise of your breasts as you fiddle with the knot on top of your head. They trail over the flex of your collarbones, and he sinks further into his shame when he imagines tracing the lines with his tongue.

You catch him staring, and his throat bobs with his swallow.

“What?” you ask with arched brows. You grin at him like you know something.

Fuck, what if you know?

You asked him something. Stiles knows you asked him something, but he can’t remember what. He just swallows again and fumbles for his coffee. Stiles knows that he should be desensitized to it all by now: your clever mouth, your deft fingers, your fluttering lashes, but he’s still startled by it every so often—like right now, when you look like you’re about to say something snarky at his expense.

“Does it look that bad?” A few strands of your hair slip from their loose hold when you shake your head at him. “Are you moonlighting with the fashion police? I thought you’d be a little busy living in the murder capital of the world.”

Stiles laughs a little, mostly because of the simple fact that your hair always looks pretty. He said it the first time he saw you, blurted it out like a little lamb. Stiles knew, even at six, that he should be embarrassed, but he just couldn’t help it. He was so little and completely overwhelmed by his first case of puppy love; the words had nowhere else to go.

He’s gotten better at swallowing the praise-vomit, but he still notices. You’re always pretty. He’s doing his best to ignore it.

“That’s St. Louis actually,” Stiles says. He burns his tongue on his coffee and pulls a face that he knows gives him a double chin.

You slide off of your bed and kneel down next to him. Your knees press into his thigh, and it feels like something more, something profound, but he knows it doesn’t mean anything. You’re generous with your affection; you make everyone feel special when they’re around you. Stiles loves that about you, how you make him feel like he’s so smart, so vital when he knows that he’s moderately clever at best and really a lot closer criminally obsessive most days.

“Can you tell me anything about it?” you hum, nestling your chin in the hollow of his shoulder.

Stiles can smell your body wash. It’s sweet, fresh, and tickles his nose pleasantly—marigold and aloe. He’s seen the bottle in the shower. Sometimes, he has to bite his fist and turn the water to freezing when he accidentally imagines your wet, sudsy body, lathering the scent of marigold from neck to toe. It’s the in-between bits that make him especially nauseous with guilt.

“Huh?” Stiles mumbles, pressing his singed tongue to the roof of his mouth.

You poke his cheek and say, “You’re eating your lip. You only do that when you get stuck in a case.”

Stiles can think of several other things that make him suck his top lip between his teeth, but he is stuck—most likely because he’s spent the last hour watching you.

You frown, and he smiles a little at the wrinkle between your brows. You smooth out his own forehead wrinkles with your thumb and say, “It helps you sometimes—talking. You think best out loud.”

He does. Stiles swallows a little. You know him so well. You know everything about him. Everything except, of course, that the crush he had on you in elementary school has metastasized into an all-consuming, all-encompassing, honest-to-god, tried-and-true-blue, last-of-dying-breed, core-of-the-sun, probably-caused-the-big-bang kind of love.

Stiles has tried, and failed, to think of a way to casually confess how he feels. How do you even begin to break something like that to a friend? Over Chinese food? After a few beers at your favorite bar? During one of your Buffy binge nights? How is he supposed to say, ‘Hey, so I’m kind of totally and irrevocably in love with you, and it’s ruining my life a little—but that’s okay ’cause I can’t be happy unless I know that you’re happy’ without blowing up his entire life?

He can’t. So Stiles stuffs it down again with a sip of his coffee: black and bitter, a little like his heart when your not-boyfriend, boyfriend texts you. And he knows that’s so incredibly unfair of him. He knows that he’s needy, and pathetic, and far too possessive of your attention—it all makes him a little sick with self-loathing.

You have every right to remove your warmth from his side to respond, and Stiles thinks that if a guy can make you smile like that, he must not be all bad. You seem happy. When isn't feeling sorry for himself, Stiles is happy for you.

“The local police think it’s gang-related,” Stiles says eventually. His voice is raspy from his burnt throat and too loud in the silence of the near-empty apartment.

You slide your phone back into your pocket, and Stiles tries not to feel victorious. “And you don’t,” you scooch back to his side, ducking your head over his shoulder to see his screen.

“No,” Stiles combs his fingers through his hair and sighs, “I don’t. It’s too easy.”

“Follow your gut,” you say, poking his abs, “he usually knows what’s up.”

“You know what he’s sayin’ right now?” Stiles’s back clicks as he stretches and rolls his neck around in slow circles. It does little for the perpetual ache along the ridge of his skull, but it gives him some space from you and your stupidly sweet smile. “It’s time for chimichangas.”

You smile at him again, and Stiles blames the swooping in his stomach on hunger. “I think you deserve a little more than off-brand, freezer-burned Tex-Mex.”

“Don’t knock Great Value,” Stiles grumbles, rubbing a hand over his face. His lips, swollen from an afternoon of tearing into them with his teeth, tug into a tired smile when you wave your hand impatiently in front of his face. He wraps his long fingers around yours and says, “She’s been there for me through everything.”

“Higher standards, Stiles,” you roll your eyes, crinkled at the corners with your grin, “you’re in desperate need of higher standards.”

Stiles wants to laugh, feels the impulse itch his throat. High standards are precisely his problem.

“Maybe you should stop being such a brand snob,” Stiles pokes you in the side, a spot between your ribs that he knows is ticklish. You laugh and shove him away with a firm hand; Stiles goes willingly, stumbles into the doorframe just to make you laugh again.

“I am not a snob,” you push yourself onto a barstool, socked-feet dangling below. He smiles as you swing them and then knock your ankles together. You used to do the same thing on the playground swing set. “Not liking over-salted garbage is not snobbery.”

Stiles reaches for the open bag of corn nuts on the island, needlessly resting his palm on your lower back under the guise of balance. Your skin is warm, and he’s too busy thinking about how his hand must’ve been molded around the shape of your hip to notice how hard you’re biting your lower lip.

He tosses a few corn nuts in the air and catches them in his waiting mouth, smacking his lips together until they’re free of nacho cheese seasoning. He grins at the look on your face, and he wants to kiss the tip of your scrunched nose. “See,” Stiles sucks the leftover orange dust off of his fingers. His voice is muffled by his thumb when he says, “You’re snubbing my snacks right now—like a little munchie elitist. How dare you; they probably won’t ever recover.”

You laugh, as expected, and snatch the bag from the counter, not expected. “You’re literally biting your thumb at me!”

Stiles leans against the counter, rests his forearms on the granite, and watches you chew with a dumb, fond smile on his face. You’re just so clever, all wrapped up in keen smiles and sharp wit. You keep him on his toes, always have—Stiles hasn’t ever met anyone else who can spar with him so well. He doesn’t think he ever will. Admittedly, he hasn’t looked that hard; his heart just isn’t in it—who else would paraphrase Shakespeare in the middle of a mock debate? Who else could possibly look so wily and wicked while doing it through a mouthful of, objectively, terrible gas station eats.

“Purely accidental,” Stiles taps his fingers against the counter, and his shoulders lift with a small, oh-so innocent shrug, “it’s what we professionals call a ‘serendipitous turn of events’.”

“A professional what?” You grin at him. It’s one of his favorites, the one that says you’re about to tease him. “Sadist?”

“Oh,” Stiles’s brow quirks as he leans forward onto his arms, “so I torture you? Being around me is torturous?”

“Yes.” Your chin jerks with a small, sharp nod, but the only thing Stiles can see is your pouty bottom lip.

Sometimes, Stiles swears you do it on purpose—turn him on in the most inconvenient of moments. Make his heart swell into his throat until he devolves into a lovesick caveman. You have to know what you’re doing to him when you walk around in those little tank tops with the lace trim and the sleep shorts that ride up to the swell of your ass. It can’t be accidental, the cute laugh-snorts you’re so embarrassed of, or how you get so excited when you see a bird in a parking lot. It’s all too effective to be a coincidence.

Like right now, the way your lip balm shines under the kitchen lights and exaggerates your pout. You must know how completely and utterly kissable you look, and Stiles can’t do anything about it—now that’s torture.

You give him mercy and tuck your pout away for a solemn line instead. “You’re evil; you never close the cabinets or take the trash out.”

“Careful,” Stiles grins and snaps his teeth in the air, “I bite too.”

You lean across the island, and it’s torture, the way your arms squeeze your chest and push your cleavage to the neckline of your shirt. Stiles pointedly avoids looking at the round flesh. It just looks so soft, so plush—so ripe. His teeth ache. His tongue salivates. He craves with reckless abandon, and he’s never satiated.

Stiles knows you’re a smart girl, but sometimes he forgets. You’d have to be pretty dense, after all, to not see the ravenous gleam in his eyes. You certainly don’t seem to notice it now, not with all that fondness twisting your lips into a grin. Stiles often wonders, worries, how you’d look at him if you knew. Disgusted most likely; he’s disgusted with himself half the time—but you’re so sweet, and so understanding, you’d probably forgive him.

Pity, Stiles decides, if you knew, you’d pity him. He can’t decide if that’s worse.

You rest your finger between his brows, and his dark lashes flutter, brushing against his freckles like they stamped the specks onto his skin. “Eat your nuts, monster,” you drag your finger along the slope of his nose and then ‘boop’ the tip, “and then preferably something with a single gram of protein.”

Stiles grumbles to himself and searches the fridge for something that will placate your relentless bullying. He picks up the whipped cream and rolls the chilled can around in his hands, squinting at the label. 0 grams of protein. Stiles scoffs. Reddi Whip is, like, 75% milk, right?

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he forgets to shut the fridge door until it starts beeping at him like it's a personal offense.

“Work?”

Stiles barely hears you, nose almost smooshed against his screen. “Huh?” He stares at his phone, eyes rapidly flicking back-and-forth, brain turning over how to counter the latest move on his ever-changing chessboard.

Stiles finally registers what you said when he begins his reply to his unit chief. “Oh…yeah.” His thumbs fly over his screen at a speed that, frankly, shouldn’t be humanly possible, “One sec…”

“You need a break.” You stand and place your hands on your hips in an adorable show of strength. He knows that you’re going for stern, so he bites his twitching mouth lest he invoke your actual wrath. “You’ve been working 18-hour days for the last two weeks.”

That’s an exaggeration, but Stiles doesn’t argue. He feels like it’s true. His stubble is out of control, and he’s afraid to look in the mirror and see exactly how dark his eyebags are. He only stopped by to shower and get a fresh change of clothes, but you came out of the bathroom in your little pink bathrobe and distracted him.

Stiles hates that robe. Detests it. He wants to burn it. He wants to rip the flimsy tie off with his teeth.

Mostly, Stiles wants to tuck you under his blankets and snuggle into the fuzzy fabric until he falls asleep.

He wants, he wants, he wants. That’s the problem.

You pry his phone from his hands and slip it into your back pocket. “We’re getting drunk tonight,” you say, and you say it in a way that he can’t even argue with. You say it like it’s a fact—you’re informing him, not telling him. Stiles is usually happy to comply.

That’s how you’ve always worked, after all: You point at a crocodile infested river, and he goes merrily, merrily, merrily down the stream, with a stupid, dreamy smile on his face.

It’s just. He’s functionally useless at doing anything without you. You take care of him. Always have.

Way back, when he was pre-Adderall Stiles, all baby energy and undiagnosed ADHD, you shoved a kid off of the swings when he made fun of Stiles’s babbling and twitching. He still babbles and twitches, but at least now he knows why. He doesn’t have some parasitic monster inside him; he’s just Stiles.

You’ve always known that—how was he supposed to not fall in love with you?

And after his mom died, you let him cry on your shoulder until your shirt was soaked through. He got snot all over your collar, and you just squeezed him tighter. Held onto him until he could breathe again, and then you said, “Want a grape soda?” and he almost started crying again because right then, at that moment, that was somehow the only right thing to say. Maybe because it was you, or maybe it was because you knew him so well. Maybe, it didn’t matter.

You spent the rest of the night starfished over your bed, and after a minute of staring at your ceiling fan, Stiles whispered, “Do you think we’ll be best friends forever?”

You looked at him and grinned, all teeth and sparkly eyes, and said, “You better hope so, boy blunder. Who else is gonna watch Twin Peaks with you a zillion times?” And Stiles knows that he was only eight, and he knows that maybe it was just because you made him laugh after all the emptiness, but he thinks that he fell a little bit in love with you then, even if he was too young to put a name to the feeling.

He finally figured it out when he was seventeen. Stiles wanted to be an adult so badly back then—and he felt like he was sometimes, after everything he’d gone through, but in so many ways he wasn’t. He definitely didn’t know how to handle his breakup with Malia like an adult—his first breakup, his first real relationship.

Stiles drank a lot that night. He can’t remember exactly how much, or anything that happened after 11 pm, but he does remember how you stroked his hair. He remembers how you wiped the foul mix of bile and sweat from his face with a cool washcloth and tender hands. He remembers how you tucked him into bed and curled up next to him when he asked you to say.

He remembers falling in love with you.

The epiphany felt a lot better when he was warm and limp from his dad’s scotch. It hurt a bit, when he woke up hungover and in an empty bed. You were in the kitchen, making him breakfast: greasy eggs and hashbrowns. After he got over seeing you in one of his t-shirts, he wondered if you’d ever get tired of cleaning up after him and all his issues.

Stiles still wonders that sometimes, even after you crawled into bed with him the night you found out your college sweetheart was cheating on you. He stroked your hair and ignored the wetness soaking into his neck, and you whispered against his skin, “Do you think we'll best friends forever?”

Stiles wanted to laugh. And then scream. And then kiss you. He didn’t do any of those things. He just said, “Can’t picture it any other way.” He didn’t say that whenever he thought about the future, whenever he pictured forever, you were always there.

He didn’t ask, ‘Is it okay if I’m in love with you forever?’

Stiles wants to ask it now, while you rattle off your plans for him this evening, but he doesn’t. He chews on a corn nut instead.

“Lydia’s looking for the right opportunity to make a move on the guy in 2B anyway,” you finish, blowing a strand of hair out of your face.

You’re looking at him like he’s supposed to say something, so he nods dutifully, “The guy with the mullet, right?”

You roll your eyes and poke around the cabinets, taking stock of the chips and tequila. “It’s not a mullet—you’re so obtuse when you’re jealous.”

Stiles blinks because…where the hell did that come from? “I’m good on the perm front, thanks,” he snarks through the food lodged in his cheek.

“Not of him,” you say, tongue trapped between your teeth and distracted by the mixers on top of the fridge. Your back is to him from your perch on the counter, and Stiles watches you with wary eyes. It would be so much easier if you'd just ask him to get things down from the top shelves, but you never do. Refuse to, actually. Vehemently. You'll do it yourself, even if it means breaking a limb.

You manage to keep a hold of the pile of bottles cradled against your chest through your dismount, and Stiles breathes easier when your feet are pressed against solid ground. He’s glad your eyes are still on the kaleidoscope of sugar and citrus because you’d mock the relief in his eyes without mercy.

You line the bottles up in order of emptiness and absently hum, “Well, yes of him, I guess, because—can you check on the vodka and gin?”

Stiles sticks his head in the freezer, grateful for the blast of frigid air, and tries to untangle the crumbs of meaning in your flimsy accusation. He comes up with absolutely nothing—on every front of his mission. “No gin.”

You let out a long, heavy sigh and shake your head at the dangling light fixtures. “Lydia.”

Lydia was the only person in the apartment who liked gin, but Stiles didn’t have any room in his brain for commiseration. “So, I’m jealous of little orphan Annie from 2B because…?” He leans against the counter and tucks his hands under his arms, squinting skeptically, “Just so we’re on the same page n’ all.”

You’re texting someone. He’s sure it’s Lydia, probably asking her to pick up more gin on her way home, but Stiles can’t help but wonder if you’re inviting your…whatever you call three decent dates and one evening of alright sex. ( Oh, how Stiles loved hearing all the details when you came home. )

“Hmm?” Your smile is lit up by your screen and the kittenish glint in your eye, but Stiles knows it’s not for him. He swallows his pettiness before he chokes on it. “Oh, right,” you put your phone down on the counter and smirk. This one is for him, but Stiles actually wouldn’t mind if it was for someone else; the look in your eyes is downright diabolical. “You’re so adorably, blatantly jealous that Lydia is into another no-neck, illiterate jock from the gym—but the perm is pretty bad, I’ll give you that.”

Stiles’s jaw falls, and you laugh, completely misinterpreting his stupor. He stares at you and just shakes his head, scrambling for a grasp on at least one of the million questions pinging around his skull. “You think I want Lydia?”

“Uh-doy,” you roll your eyes like he’s said something particularly stupid, “only since forever.”

He’s struck again at how you can simultaneously know him so well and not at all. “You don’t think that would’ve come up in the last, I dunno,” Stiles’s head jerks with his choppy hand gestures, “eighteen years?”

You wave your hand and then grab his wrist, “It’s been intermittent.”

You lead Stiles back into your room by his hand like he’s a wayward dog on a leash. He’s grateful for it. Stiles can’t do much else besides blink and breathe when he’s like this—when he’s wrapped up in a case he can’t crack.

Stiles drops onto the edge of your bed with a solid thud, feeling a bit like someone slammed a 2x4 into his gut. His tongue seems to be useless, glued to the back of his teeth. All he can do is watch you flit around your room, gathering an armful of skirts and dresses.

You hold up a black dress in one hand and a black mini-skirt layered under a red baby tee in the other, “Pick.”

Stiles wants to pick the sweats you’re currently wearing because they’re his, but he points at the skirt. He knows it’s your favorite; you’d pick it anyway.

You sit down in front of your vanity and pull the scrunchie out of your bun. Stiles watches your hair tumble over your shoulders. You’re insecure about it, always have been. One day it’s the color, and then it’s the texture, and he, for the life of him, doesn’t understand why. Your hair shines so prettily under the light, and it always smells so sweet, like citrus and honeysuckle—Stiles can’t decide if he wants to bury his nose in it or wrap it around his spindly fingers.

Graciously, you twist it into an artful arrangement before he can do either.

“I don’t want to be with Lydia,” Stiles finally says quietly.

You stop fiddling with pieces of hair framing your face and meet his gaze in the mirror, “It’s okay if you do.”

Stiles nods and stares at his lap, twiddling his fingers. “I know,” it’d be easier if he did, “but I don’t.”

You turn around in your chair and give him a little smile. It’s fond and sweet, and Stiles feels like a hand is closing around his heart and twisting it behind his ribs. “We’ll find you someone tonight, then,” you say, popping up from your seat. You grab your clothes off of the bed and squeeze his shoulder on your way to the full-length mirror next to your closet.

Stiles turns his head when you start to wriggle out of your shirt. He knows you don’t care what he sees after years of sleepovers and lake vacations, but you don’t know what it does to him. How all your dips and curves slip behind his lids when he’s alone with his fist and too much lube. If he’s really being honest, it also happens when he’s not alone, but that makes him feel like a piece of shit for a whole other list of reasons.

All of it feels pretty awful when it’s over—when Stiles is left with the unpleasant sensation of drying cum on his stomach and the very unpleasant realization that you’d never wear a swimsuit around him again if you knew exactly what he does with the image.

So. Stiles does what he can. He doesn’t look when you change, tries to avoid seeing you in a towel altogether, and watches so much porn of people who look nothing like you.

It doesn’t work, of course, but he tries. That has to count for something.

Stiles swallows and taps his fingers against his thighs. “I can’t think of anything I want to do less than interact with a bunch of drunk strangers partying in my—”

“Not a bunch,” you say around a grunt, tripping over the dragging hem of your borrowed sweats, “and not a party. Just a chill get-together of like-minded peers.”

He scoffs and tips his chin up, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. “I’m sure I have so much in common with Lydia’s guest list. Yeah, we can talk about how they can bench-press two of me and that I also love me some stacking—pancakes, not steroids, but close enough.”

There’s a whoosh of a zipper and then you’re in front of him with your arms folded over your chest and thinned eyes. “You better behave.”

Stiles grins; it’s decidedly obnoxious. “I’ll be perfectly cordial, promise. I’ll even speak slowly.”

You laugh, and Stiles knows you’re only pretending that you didn’t want to.

“I think it’ll be good for you.” You return to your vanity and pilfer through your mess of earrings. “Y’know, to get out of your head for a little bit. It really is just gonna be us and a few plus ones. I know you, boy wonder, no parties shall ever be thrown in your honor. I solemnly swear.”

He smiles at the childhood pet name, a private little grin Stiles keeps tucked in his chest and at his feet. It falls, however, when he remembers the middle bits of your speech. “So,” Stiles gnaws on his thumbnail and jiggles his knee, “did you invite a plus one?”

You slide a gold hoop through your ear and grin at him, “Nah, I’m all yours tonight, Stilinski.”

Good. God.

Stiles wants to kiss you. He always wants to kiss you, but sometimes every inch of you rips the air from his lungs—cleaves him right in two. Like right now. He forgets how to speak, trying to remember what he can say and what he absolutely can’t say, while he imagines a life where you really are his and you know that he’s always been yours.

You’re just so pretty in your little skirt and cherry t-shirt, and you’re so clever, and funny, and you’re looking at him like he’s your favorite person in the entire world, and Stiles feels all of it spilling over the edges of his restraint. He almost says something so heavy—so categorically, catastrophically stupid, it would ruin your friendship for good.

Stiles swallows it back into his chest, but his voice is still thick when he says, “All mine, huh.”

He’s sick with yearning, and he’s petrified for a moment that you can tell. It seems so obvious to him. It would be obvious to anyone, Stiles thinks, if they heard how weak he sounded, how soft in his throat and reverent in your presence.

But you don’t notice. You never do. It’s a relief, and it’s endlessly frustrating.

“Yep,” you smack your lips together, blotting your red lipstick until it’s perfect, “I wanna win, and everyone knows you can’t win True American with a noob on your team.”

His brow arches, and a lazy grin smears across his mouth, “Oh, so we’re getting drunk drunk tonight.”

You wink at him in the mirror, “If you play your cards right.”

Stiles does, in fact, play his cards right. He picks Scott as the third member of your cabinet, possibly because Scott can outdrink anyone…or maybe it’s because Scott knows that Stiles is pathetically into you and can’t keep his mouth shut at the best of times, but especially not when he’s drunk.

Who’s to say, really?

Honestly, Stiles doesn’t need the advantage—Lydia’s voluntarily stuck with Isaac and the guy from 2B who can’t follow the rules no matter how many times they shout them at him, and Malia and Kira care far more about making goo-goo eyes at each other than they do helping their friend from yoga make any progress towards the King—but he’s competitive by nature and feeling exceptionally stupid tonight.

Lydia introduced the Clinton Strip Rules solely to ogle her latest man candy’s aggressively sculpted six-pack and show off her bewitching décolletage, and it was going along swimmingly until the idiot forgot how to count.

It was so simple. All the guy had to do was hold up three fingers—that’s all. He would’ve matched Lydia's count, and then they could've made out behind the Iron Curtain. But he didn’t. He held up two fingers and in doing so single-handedly crafted Stiles Stilinski’s demise.

Ironic. Considering the moron can't craft a compound-complex sentence to save his life.

For a single, endless moment, you and Stiles just stare at each other, more specifically, at the four fingers plastered against your foreheads—and then the spell is broken by drunken cackling. Lydia grins like the cat who caught the canary, and Scott laughs until his face turns red. He’s loud and obnoxious with the four drinks he’s downed, and Stiles wants to shove him out the window.

“Guys,” Stiles whines, “you don’t really—”

You finish the beer in your hand and shrug your shoulders, “It’s fine.”

Stiles’s head whips towards you, big-eyed and fish-mouthed. He can’t form words. Can’t speak any of the five languages he knows. He’s become a Stiles Stilinski skinsuit held up by a skeleton of gelatin and faulty survival instincts.

You smile at him a little and shrug again, “It’s just a game, right?”

You don’t say it, but Stiles can hear it with painful clarity: It doesn’t mean anything.

Stiles doesn’t know how to say no without telling the truth. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, not exactly. Stiles wants to kiss you—of course he wants to kiss you, feels like the whole goddamn world knows he wants to kiss you and is conspiring against him—but not like this. He doesn’t want to kiss you when it’s nothing. He’s thought about it far too much, imagined it on his bedroom ceiling in the safety of darkness too many nights, to blow it all on a stupid drinking game. A stupid gym-bro’s mistake.

Stiles had a plan. A plan he never actually had the courage to act on, but a plan nonetheless.

He was going to hold your face with shaking hands, smooth his thumbs along the sleek line of your jaw, look you in the eyes so that you could see the disbelief, the wonder, the awe. You’d see that he was overwhelmed to the bone, to all the nerves shivering inside the marrow, and you’d have to forgive him for being so tongue-tied and awkward—for taking so long.

And then, he’d kiss you.

He’d kiss you again, and again, and again, until one of you started laughing, but that’d be okay because it would give him the chance to kiss your neck and whisper, 'You’re the sky, and the mountains, and everything in-between.'

'You’re dark matter; you’re gravity,' he’d kiss the words into your skin and sigh, 'you’re the only thing holding the universe together.'

But he can’t say that, so Stiles follows you into Lydia’s bedroom and wipes the sweat on his palms off on his jeans.

You’re a little giggly while you fumble for the light. It’s breathy, and you can’t meet his eyes. Stiles feels a little better knowing that you’re almost as nervous as he is. You aren’t usually the nervous kind, after all. That’s his thing.

Stiles slides his hands into his back pockets and rocks onto his heels, “We don’t…we can just pretend that we…did it.”

“Did it?” you arch a brow, lips curling into a wry grin. “It’s just a kiss, Stiles. I thought you wanted to win? We gotta end Lydia’s streak, or she’ll be insufferable.”

Stiles’s mouth goes dry: cottony with wanting, brittle with misery. He can’t pretend anymore; he can’t pretend that he's not dying from this.

You can’t look at Stiles’s face. Can’t see the panic. It’s why you shuffle closer to him, stiffly reach for his shoulders and awkwardly search for the least romantic place to rest your hands. Stiles’s back thuds against the wall, and you finally dart your eyes to his. “It’s fine,” you say weakly.

There’s a loud chorus of, ‘Kiss, kiss, kiss,’ through the door, and Stiles watches the resolve harden your face. His chest rises and falls with quick, shallow exhales. He can hear his pulse ricochet around his ear canal, can feel the sweat gathering on his palms, can taste the anticipation in the air.

You roll your shoulders back a few times and shake your hands by your side, rotating your neck in a few slow circles. “Just kiss me, Stilinski. No biggie. I think we can catch up to Isaac if you hurry the hell up and plant one on—”

“Not like this!”

Your mouth parts into a perfect little ‘o’, and Stiles’s eyes bulge when he realizes that the pathetic, desperate cry came from him.

You fold your arms over your chest and tilt your head with an expression on your face that Stiles can’t read for the life of him. “What,” you lick your lip, and Stiles squirms with shame when he can’t stop himself from tracking the movement, “what does that mean?”

Stiles’s face spasms, and he can feel his IQ drop by tens the longer you stare at him.

“No, I didn’t…” Stiles’s stutters, flicking his gaze to your forehead, your chin, between your brows—anywhere but your eyes. His nose scrunches as he shakes his head, “Nothing. I just—I didn’t mean like that.” Stiles isn’t entirely sure what you think he meant, but considering he can’t decide what he means, it’s a safe bet that you’re wrong.

Stiles's hands take over for his melting brain matter, gesturing wildly every-so often like the flexing and contracting add any actual meaning to his meaningless babble. “I just, we can’t like that because that’s not…Do you know, like…? It’s very, like, you don’t…” His eyelids seem to have forgotten how to blink, and Stiles thinks he’d do just about anything for a piano to fall out of the sky right about now.

The chanting outside the door gets louder; Stiles isn’t sure if it’s real or just his anxiety. Through his narrowing pinprick vision, the only thing he can see at the end of the dark, dark tunnel is Lydia’s window. The heavy purple curtains frame the opening like serendipitous velvet gift wrapping.

Stiles swallows and nods sharply, “If you’ll excuse me.”

Stiles steps around you, and you follow his path with your eyes. They’re pinched with suspicion, but mostly concern. “Stiles, what are you do—”

“I’m fine,” Stiles tries to wave off your worries with a shaky hand.

And then he unlatches Lydia’s window and crawls on top of a chair to reach the opening.

“Okay, this makes sense. I just need a little air,” Stiles mumbles to himself. His dirty sneakers leave a clear outline of his soles on the white fur. Under any other circumstances, you’d both be desperately trying to scrub the fabric clean before Lydia found the stains and rained her wrath down upon your very fragile, bruisable bodies. Under these circumstances, you’re preoccupied with the half of Stiles’s body that’s hanging outside the window of your 3rd-story apartment.

“Stiles!” you stumble to the wall and freeze, unsure how to pull him back in without accidentally tipping him onto the concrete three floors below.

Stiles manages to slip the rest of his body through the window without breaking any limbs. Yet. “This is what I needed. Yup, this is—” his eyes engulf his face, a wide pool of churning honey, when he finally realizes just how small the ledge is and just how far away the ground is, “ah, ha, ha!”

“Stiles!” You cover your face with your hands and shake your head over and over again. You hope, childishly, if you spin fast enough, you can rewind time back to 10 minutes ago—when Stiles was safe on the floor and you could stop yourself from giving into the silly, stupid desire to kiss him. Just once. To finally find out how it would feel.

You peek through your fingers and wince as he stumbles towards the left. “You don’t have to kiss me!”

Stiles disappears from view, and you tumble into the hallway. You let out a low hiss when your hip slams into a sharp corner. The flare of pain is soon forgotten, however, when Stiles slams his hands against the living room window. Everyone turns to gawk at him, eight mouths wide open and not a single word is spoken until Stiles presses his entire body against the glass.

The window hasn’t been cleaned since you all moved in, so you can’t quite make out his expression through grime and dirt, but you can hear the shrill urgency in his voice. “This is a regret—I immediately regret this.” It would be funny, how high his voice is—approaching autotuned chipmunk territory, honestly—if he wasn’t six inches away from certain death. You can all laugh about it later when Stiles is safe on the couch, you decide. After you’ve punched him in the arm for doing something so bone-shatteringly stupid, obviously.

Malia does laugh, and Kira smacks her shoulder. You almost appreciate the levity; it reminds you that your brain needs oxygen to function.

Scott cups his hand around his mouth and shouts, “Don’t move!”

Stiles smooshes his button nose into the glass. He inhales and exhales with mad abandon, creating and erasing a cloud of condescension with every breath. “I've made a very bad mistake! I’m not trained for this!” his lips smear against the glass, muffling his cries for help. Stiles pulls back, and leaves a streak of saliva behind. At least, that patch of the window is clean now, biohazard be damned.

It’s Scott who ends up saving the day. No surprise there. He gets Stiles through the window and shoves him onto the couch, teeth ground in what can only be described as parental frustration.

Scott folds his arms over his chest and narrows his eyes, “You scared me half to death out there.”

Isaac snorts and rolls his eyes, quipping over Scott's shoulder, “Are you not getting enough attention?”

“I’m fine!” Stiles groans into his hands and pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s still red from being smashed against the window, and the rest of his face matches with his embarrassed flush. “I am fine! I was partly joking and at least 64% drunk!”

“Stiles, we will talk about this in the morning,” Scott’s face is stern, and his grip on Stiles’s shoulder is just as firm, “but right now, I’m gonna go do stuff with a girl.”

Scott’s face is still solemn when he high-fives Isaac, mostly out of habit. You do laugh then. Can’t help it. A little bit of relief creeps through your constricted chest when Stiles smiles. It’s brief, a little twitch at the corners of his slightly-swollen mouth, but it’s there.

Allison rolls her eyes when Scott holds out his hand, but she still takes it and follows him towards his bedroom.

“Shut the door!” Stiles shouts at their backs. He slumps back against the couch cushions when the thudding of Scott's door closing echoes through the hall.

It’s quiet for a moment. Kira shifts awkwardly, clinging to Malia’s arm for balance when the fog of alcohol spreads from her flushed cheeks to her platform combat boots. Malia doesn’t look that concerned, but she’s always been cool under pressure…and any other emotion.

You expect Lydia to look as worried as you do, but she has a strange, calculating look in her eyes. They’re sharp in the light of her brilliance; the jade almost looks feline.

Lydia’s beaux ends up breaking the silence with a loose laugh. His head tips back with his chuckle, and he throws his meaty arm around Lydia’s shoulders. “That was freakin’ hilarious! I mean, dude jumped out on a ledge instead of kissing a 10. Can you believe that?”

Lydia looks wholly unamused and says flatly, “I really can’t.” She fixes Stiles with a look you can’t read, but Stiles seems to understand.

“I know.” Stiles drops his face into his hands and digs his face into the cradle of his wide palms. "I’m an idiot.”

Everyone seems to hear a cue that you missed while watching Stiles’s chest rise and fall. Malia, Kira, and their plus one filter out the door one-by-one, and Isaac kisses your cheek before wrapping his scarf around his neck. You’re relieved again when you hear Stiles scoff; it’s something he always does when Isaac puts on one of his pretentious kerchiefs in the balmy, LA weather. It’s nice to see some things are still the same.

Lydia stares at Stiles, and they have a silent conversation that ends with a patented Lydia Martin glare and a quintessential Stiles Stilinski squint.

Lydia leaves with her late night delight and kiss to your other cheek, and suddenly it’s just you and Stiles.

You wring your fingers together, gnawing on the lining of your cheek. You can’t think of anything to say. To Stiles. You never thought you’d see the day.

The couch creaks with Stiles’s shifting weight. He pushes himself to his feet and stands in front of you. The redness in his face has faded, baring the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose that you’re so fond of. His lips part. Your breath stills, waiting. Wanting. His silence washes over the room like a flood, and you close your eyes. You’re afraid of it, witnessing the inevitable wreckage.

It doesn’t come.

You hear the quiet padding of Stiles’s footsteps. When you open your eyes, he’s gone, slinking down the hall to his bedroom. You stare at the place he was just standing, feeling the chill of his absence, and then it’s gone. A glaring blaze of anger warms your face, and you allow it to carry you to Stiles’s closed door. What a metaphor; the thought grinds your molars together until they screech.

You wrench his door open, and Stiles jumps, halfway out of his jeans. He stumbles over the cuffs and almost falls on his face. You wish you could tease him, laugh until you snort and Stiles glares at you through his pathetic attempt to hide his smirk. But you can’t. Not yet.

“You’re really just going to leave it like that?” you say, closing his door behind you. It’s preemptive; you feel a little like yelling. “That was a whole other level of stupid, Stiles, even by your standard.”

Stiles quickly yanks his pants back up and buttons them, struggling with the zipper and his twitching fingers. “Can we just not,” Stiles rubs a hand over his face, looking infinitely older than he is, and mumbles a hollow, “actually, can we never.”

The words hang heavily in the air. In the harrowing quiet, you think: Oh god, is this it? Is this really the end?

Stiles stares at his feet, at the hole he’s wearing in the oak floor. He hears it too, the weight of what he’s done. Fucking hell, he thinks, I didn't know cowardice could be so loud.

You smooth your hands over your hair, clasping for any semblance of composure. “I just…I didn’t realize that the thought of kissing me was so…traumatic.”

Stiles jerks his head from the floor and tugs his fingers through hair. He pulls at the roots until it stings and shakes his head, “That’s not…you’re,” he gestures towards you helplessly and swallows the millions of things he wants to say, “you.”

“Yeah,” your shoulder lifts in a tiny shrug, arms winding around your torso like a brace, “that seems to be the issue.”

Stiles just looks at you for a moment. The lamp on his desk bathes his skin in a wave of warmth when he tilts his head. The tip of his nose casts a shadow over his lips, and you want to trace the divot in his cupid’s bow, the little lines by his nose, the hollow space under his eyes. You want to trace them all with your fingertips and then memorize them with your mouth.

Stiles's eyes are golden in the light, and they’re stuck on yours.

“You are…” Stiles closes his eyes, and his voice is so soft, so devout, “you are so fucking...inescapable, you know that? You are…you’re so deep inside my head, I can’t do anything without thinking about you. It’s becoming a serious fuckin’ problem—a nuisance, actually, a nuisance. And it’s not like I haven’t tried to stop, y’know, like it would be fuckin’ awesome if I could just forget how you smell like going home and a goddamn spring meadow, or if I could go fuckin’ grocery shopping without looking for those impossible to find chips with the Elmer Fudd lookin’ fucker on ‘em—”

“Hot fries,” you whisper hoarsely.

Stiles stops pacing for a moment and nods at you, “Thank you—hot fries. And I would love it if I could walk down the street, just once, and not look for a dog to take a picture of, just so I have an excuse to text you without looking like I was just thinking about you—even though I was obviously just thinking about you because, re my previous ranting, there’s literally not a single second of the day that you're not on my mind. You're just…inevitable.”

“And…I am Iron Man?” your smile is wobbly.

Stiles gives you a flat look over his shoulder, “You’re a smartass—but I love that. I love everything about you—even the way you talk through my favorite movies and force-feed me a vegetable once a week.”

“Stiles,” you swallow shallowly and rest your hand on his chest. Stiles stops pacing and meets your gaze with big, endless eyes and blinking butterfly lashes. Tipping your head to the side, you swipe your thumb over his thudding heart, “What are you trying to say?”

Stiles rests his hand on top of yours, clunkily lacing your fingers together for a little stability. “I love you,” he whispers, because he has to. It has to be this soft. It has to stay just between you and him, in the little bubble of air between your lips. “I’ve been in love with you since…” Stiles chews on his lip, trying to pinpoint when he knew, when he knew that you’re it for him. There are so many moments that come to mind, and he can’t pick a single one. It’s just that the line between mud pies, and t-ball, and this is so blurry. Stiles can’t tell where it really begins and where it ends.

It feels boundless, Stiles thinks, infinity. It’s something, somewhere, past the edge of the universe. He’s yours infinitely. There is no before he loved you, and there is no after. It’s just always.

Stiles breathes and sighs out his answer, “Forever. I’ve loved you since forever, and I couldn’t—I can’t kiss you if it doesn’t mean anything.”

Your lips curve slowly. It’s a nervous smile, one that’s afraid of the rug being yanked out from under happily ever after. “You love me?” you say quietly, voice little and meek.

The tip of Stiles’s tongue darts out, wetting his lip. He nods slowly and rubs the back of his neck—an anxious tick you know very well. You’ve watched Stiles for eighteen years, after all. You’ve studied the tendons in his neck, how they flex when he crooks his head down to read, how it makes your belly warm more than it should. You know he flexes his fingers exactly three times before starting a test, and you know that the long veins in his arms are the most stupidly attractive things you’ve ever seen. He’s the most attractive thing you’ve ever seen, and you’ve loved him for so long it’s written in your bone marrow.

Stiles scratches his neck until it’s pink and raw, and you pull his hand away instinctively. He smiles at you so timidly it breaks your heart, “Is that okay?”

You nod, and nod, and nod. “Very okay. Very, very okay. The most okay of all the okay’s.” It’s so fast, and it’s been so long, but mostly it’s right. Like this is the only logical conclusion, the answer to a cold case that took eighteen years to solve. Your life has always been youandstiles, and that sounds a whole like forever.

Slipping a hand to the back of his neck, you run your thumb along the knobs of his spine and whisper, “I am so ridiculously in love with you, boy wonder.”

Stiles grins. It starts small, fond, tender—but the more times he hears it, every time she loves me, she loves me, she loves me bounces around his ribcage, his grin gets a little bigger, a little brighter. Soon, it stretches across his entire face and swallows you whole. He looks more than alive like this; you want to taste the electricity in his mouth.

You smile at each other for a long time, and you look at Stiles through your lashes. “So,” you tip your chin and bat your eyes, “you gonna kiss me?”

Stiles is going to kiss you. He swears. He’s just…he’s thinking too much after an evening of not thinking at all. He’s been waiting for this for forever, and what if his lips are dry—or, worse, what if they’re too wet? What if his hands are cold and clammy, and you can feel his sweat when he cups your cheeks. He definitely feels sweaty. And nervous. And—

You rock onto your tiptoes and kiss him. It’s a little kiss, soft and short, but everything goes static and neon around you. You let out a little sigh, start to pull away—and Stiles whimpers. His hands surges forward and latches onto the back of your neck, pulling your mouth back to his.

Stiles slides the breadth of his large palm up and down your back, chasing the rhythm of your breath. There isn't much to chase, you think deliriously, you aren’t really sure if you need oxygen to survive anymore. You like swallowing his sounds and tasting his tongue far more than breathing. It feels like Stiles agrees with you when he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you into his chest, digging his fingers into the small of your back until there’s nowhere else for you to go. Silly boy. As if you’d rather be anywhere else.

He makes the sweetest little noises in-between your kisses, softening the wet smacking of lips and tongues. You chase them, learning what he likes by unraveling him one sound at a time, with a tug on his hair here, a nibble on his lip there, and your hands just about everywhere.

It’s hot. Literally. You can feel heat licking your skin—or maybe that’s just Stiles. Your head is a little fuzzy from his kisses and not enough oxygen, and logic is a distant thought. Breathing. People need to breathe.

Stiles’s nose bumps against yours when he pulls back. He smiles drunkenly and leans in for one more kiss. It’s quick and open-mouthed, two little brushes of his lips, and it steals what’s left of the air in your lungs.

Stiles brushes your hair back and rests his forehead against yours. His breath chills your spit-slick, swollen mouth, and you shiver at the look in his eyes. “I meant something like that.”

#stiles stilinski #stiles stilinksi x reader #stiles stilinksi imagine #stiles stilinksi fanfiction #stiles stilinski fluff #dylan o'brien x reader #dylan o'brien imagine #teen wolf #teen wolf fanfiction #teen wolf imagine #stiles stilinski x you #stiles stilinski x reader

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star-girl-05 · 10 months ago

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Were Dating?

Stiles Stilinski x Reader

~★~❤︎~✦~

His signature blue jeep pulled into your driveway at exactly eight. Surprisingly the brunette was on time for once. As soon as he parks he’s jumping out of the jeep, giving you his dorky smile before opening the passenger side door for you. You just chuckle at his actions.

You and Stiles have been friends for years though it was only lately that he's been acting somewhat differently. He’s been sweeter to you, more thoughtful, you contribute it to the fact the two of you have been spending more alone time together. Tonight the two of you are going to see a new horror movie that you’ve been dying to see.

You and Stiles just buttered your popcorn when you bump into Scott and allison. Coincidentally they are going to see the same movie, so you decided to join each other. ‘A double date’ in Stiles' own words. The night went amazing, after the movie the four of you decided to get food. At the end of the night Stiles drives you back to your house. Even going as far as walking you to the door. Just as you're about to say goodnight he kisses you. You freeze when his lips meet yours, completely stunned by the boy's bold move.

“Uh.. What was that?” You weren't against Stiles kissing you but you wanted to know why he's kissing you out of the blue.

Stiles tilted his head a blush still coating his cheeks, “It’s a goodnight kiss, can’t I kiss my girlfriend” Now you're really confused.

“I’m your girlfriend?”

“Of course you're my girlfriend”, he chuckled thinking you were teasing him. It's only when you ask since when with a completely straight face does he realize you're being serious. “A week in a half, I asked you out two tuesdays ago.”

It took a few seconds to place the day.

It was an average day, Stiles was driving you home like he does everyday. Only this time when you pulled up to your house he stops you. “Hey before you go I wanted to ask you something” He was oddly nervous but you didn't think anything about it, giving him a nod of encouragement. “I was wondering if you wanted to hang-out, like just the two of us.” Why he’s so nervous to ask you to hang out you don’t know but you answer right away.

“Of course, I don’t know why you were so nervous to ask. I could never say no to you.” A huge smile blooms on Stiles face, his dimples fully on show.

“Thank goodness, I was so nervous that you would say no” you laugh at his reaction, why on earth would you ever say no.

Now looking back on it’s so obvious that he was asking you on a date. In your defense he never used the word date or the word girlfriend. So it wasn’t totally your fault for not connecting the dots.

“I didn’t realize you were asking me out” your voice is soft

“Oh” an awkward silence covers the two of you as both stare at each other. He had no idea how to respond, this whole time he thought you were his girlfriend, but you thought the two of you were only friends. He had no idea how you thought the two of you were friends. He wasn't hiding his affection for you. The two of you would hold hands, and cuddle yet you thought you were friends. He felt like an idiot, he just kissed you when you saw him as just a friend. “Well then goodnight I guess sorry I kissed you let's just forget about it” he tried to laugh off his discomfort, this is not how he thought tonight was going to go. This morning he was dating his longtime crush and now he’s finding out it was all a lie. He just wanted to run away and die of embarrassment.

Before he could leave you grab his arm pulling him back to you and placing a kiss on his lips. His mind short-circuited, he’s on a rollercoaster. One second he's dating you then you're rejecting him and now you're kissing him.

“Stiles, do you want to be my Boyfriend?”

“Yeah I would love too” his smiles huge

“That's how you ask someone out” you giggle out

“Well when someone takes you on dates and holds your hands that means your dating” the both of you laugh kissing each other once more.

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tomsparkyr · 2 months ago

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𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐋 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐀 [𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐀𝐔𝐋𝐓]

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

summary: when coach tells people the room requirements and the 'no sexual perversions perpetrated' rule by the so-called 'little deviants', it only makes the couple want to break that rule even more.

stiles stilinski x fem!reader (no smut sorry babies)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You were nestled into your boyfriend's neck, the soft flannel material brushing against your cheek and the scent you knew all too well, all of the senses could have made your eyes flutter back closed. You felt a small nudge on your shoulder, groaning and shrugging off the contact, you decided to ignore Stiles’ silent request for you to lift your head up.

It wasn’t until you felt his warm touch brush the hair that had fallen in front of your face away and the palm of his hand stroke your cheekbone, you pulled away from his contact and looked up at him.

His brown eyes looked into your own and he smiled softly at you. He couldn’t help but think you were the most beautiful person he’s ever laid his eyes on. He couldn’t believe he was going out with someone like you. You were beautiful in and out, hence his gut-wrenching crush he’s had on you since the 3rd grade. After long years of pining and certain dreams, he couldn’t thank the supernatural world for existing more as he finally got a chance with you; and boy, did he take it.

At the beginning of your relationship, Scott thought Stiles was joking when he said he kissed you, and you actually kissed him back. He just laughed, patted him on the shoulder and moved on with the subject.

“No, Scott! I’m not kidding.” Stiles said, almost offended. But then he sobered his thoughts and kind of understood Scott because it had taken him 3 hours after your kiss to finally process that he had grown the balls to do that, and apparently you liked it too.

Scott paused momentarily, “Neither am I Stiles, we need to focus on--” Stiles sighed dramatically and flailed his arms around in desperation. Scott paused mid-sentence, tilted his head and waited for his best friend to continue.

“Scott, I kissed her. Like, I actually kissed her!” Stiles smiled widely. Scott remained unconvinced, blinking slowly and scrunched his brows. “You know, when you put your lips on someone else's--”

“Yes, Stiles! I know what kissing is!” The werewolf exasperated, he shook his head. “I just don’t believe it was with her. Y/N? Head cheerleader, popular, smart, way out of your league Y/N?”

“You better believe it, Scotty.” Stiles patted his hand rhythmically on Scott’s back as he began to walk away, intending to walk to his beautiful girlfriend's house.

Scott grabbed onto Stiles’ flannel and yanked him back for more details, “You mean ‘I’ve had a crush on her since 3rd grade, I wish she would look my way and we would get married and have kids’ Y/N?” Scott grew a proud smile the more he said, knowing how down bad his best friend was for this girl.

Stiles nodded frantically and adjusted his flannel, “And she actually kissed you back?” Scott questioned. “Scott, I think 3rd grade me died a little bit when she held my hand, let alone kiss me back.” Stiles jokes.

The two boys looked at each other before high fiving and doing their ‘bro-hug’. Scott congratulated the boy, not hiding his pure excitement for his friend; borderline jumping for joy. The boys gushed over the new relationship for a few more minutes before Stiles snapped out of it and ran out the room, shouting behind him saying he had to get back to his girlfriend who was waiting for him. Scott doing a subtle fist pump as Stiles turned his back.

“Wake up, baby,” He whispered, not wanting to disturb you too much as you wiped the grogginess and sleep off your face. You looked at your surroundings, “We here?”

Stiles looked out the window of the bus, eye twitching at the surroundings. “Not quite…”

The motel looked uncomfortable, old and just overall, definitely violating hundreds of safety codes. The poor attempt at the neon lights brightened up the place in the darkness outside, but did little to make the atmosphere any more homely. But he knew it would be fine for one night, as long as you were by his side the entire night.

Everyone began piling out of the bus, a couple of your friends passing you and giving you two a wink as they noticed the state you and your boyfriend were in; cuddled up close, hands intertwined and Stiles admiring you as if you had hung the stars in the sky. Even in this messed up supernatural world, Stiles found beauty in the horror; and that was you.

Stiles helped you off the bus, his hands never leaving you. He slung an arm around your waist as you stepped onto the concrete and became aware of your surroundings.

It was clear you had the same initial thoughts as Stiles as he read your body language. He rubbed his thumb on the skin between your top and the jeans that hugged your figure, leaning in and kissing the top of your forehead.

As you walked towards your friends and addressed Lydia’s discomfort at the Motel, Stiles had sneaked behind you and hugged you from behind. He rested his head on top of yours and you leaned back into his chest; his arms were locked around your front and you rested your hands on top of his, sighing into the contact.

It felt like you were in a dream, you never wanted to leave this comfortability with Stiles, he was the best boyfriend you could ever ask for.

The Coach’s whistle broke you out of your bliss, snapping your attention to him as he turned away from the Motel and faced the angsty teenagers.

“Listen up. The meet’s been pushed till tomorrow.” You groaned quietly and nestled backwards into Stiles’ chest, he smiled at you. “This is the closest Motel with the most vacancies and least amount of good judgement when it comes to accepting a bunch of degenerates such as yourselves.”

You would protest Coach’s point, but he was completely correct, actually. Who the hell would want 20 odd, hormonal teenagers who definitely have questionable things packed in their bags to stay in your Motel?

“Now, you’ll be pairing up. Choose wisely.”

You and Stiles look at each other, untangling yourself from his hold and intertwining your hands. You pulled him over to the Coach, not seeing Scott raise his brows at Stiles’ smirking face at the idea of spending a night with you in your own room, no parental interruptions, no supernatural; just a boyfriend and girlfriend in each other's company.

Coach noticed the two of you approaching like a couple on their honeymoon and felt the need to clarify something.

“And I’ll have no sexual perversions perpetrated by you little deviants, got that? Keep your dirty little hands to your dirty little selves!” He shouted, looking directly at you. “Especially you, Stilinski and Y/L/N!”

You two dropped your hands expectantly, reluctantly taking a key for different rooms. The boy sighed at you and leaned in to kiss you before you departed over to Lydia and Alisson.

The sound of the Coach’s whistle made you two jump apart before your lips touched. “What did I just say!” Stiles went to protest, “I don’t wanna hear it! Get out of here!”

Stiles groaned and turned away to room with Scott, you loitered back for a moment, just in time to hear the Coach say, “How he managed to get you to go out with him… I’ll never know.” You chuckled to yourself and roomed with your friends.

It had been an hour since you got to your room and settled in, kicking back and chatting to the girls for a while until they decided to shower and get themselves ready for bed. You had begun to set up until you got a message from Stiles.

Stiles: come to my room please i miss you

You smiled at his message, missing him too. And typed out a response.

You: i can’t the girls will see i’ve gone somewhere :((((

Stiles: you’ll be back before they’ve noticed you’re gone i promise

Stiles: baby?

Stiles was typing out more questions, and thinking of other ways to convince you to come over as Scott had left the room to explore the Motel more.

He was confused by your silence until he heard a knock at the door. He stood up, expecting it to be Scott but was braced by your beautiful face as he swung the door open.

He smiled, looking you up and down before tugging you into the room. He kicked the door behind him as he twisted your bodies so your back was facing the room.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders and you messed with the hair at the nape of his neck, drinking in his appearance and licking your lips. “I missed you, baby.” He groaned in the sexiest voice you think you’ve ever heard in your entire life. “I missed you, too.” You chuckled before connecting your lips.

He leaned into your body as his lips pressed into yours, subtly sneaking his tongue into your mouth. His hands snuck around to your back and held your body against his own, feeling every crevice and worshipping them. His hands explored your back, itching closer as he murmured for you to jump into him.

You obliged and wrapped your legs around his waist, he caught you by planting his hands on your ass. He smiled into his kiss and found himself growing more desperate for you as each second passed.

Your hands tangled in his hair and tugged at it as he walked the pair of you to the rickety bed situated in the middle of the room. He gently placed you on the bed and leaned on top of you, finding himself comfortable in between your legs.

The kiss grew more erratic as it went on, hotter and hands wandering. Stiles slipped his hands underneath your top and began to lift it over your head.

You stopped him suddenly and he pulled back, his face coated in your lipgloss and his hair a mess; God, he looked good.

“What? Did I do something wrong?” He panicked. You smiled and placed your hands on his face. “No, baby. Just don’t want Scott to walk in on us.” You confessed.

Stiles shook his head, “He won’t be back for ages…” He whispered and leaned back in to kiss your neck, sucking at your sweet spots that made your back arch. You sighed as his tongue worked wonders.

Stiles noticed you weren’t fully convinced and jumped off the bed, leaving you stranded. You were confused momentarily until he snatched something out of the bedside drawer, and opened the room door, hooking it on the handle and turning back to you.

“Just to be sure.” He winked and situated himself back between your legs and lifted your shirt over your head this time.

The room became hotter with each second, steam practically coating the walls; as the room door held up a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign with pride.

Your stay with Stiles was much more prolonged than you had intended, your clothes now back on your body a little misshapen but the thought that was there.

You skipped back to your Motel room and quietly pushed open the door at this late hour, knowing Lydia and Alisson were probably curled up in bed at this time.

Kicking off your shoes, you snuck into the room and breathed a sigh of relief that the girls hadn’t had their suspicions about your disappearance, obviously feeling content enough to go to sleep with no nerves.

You turned on the bedside lamp to see where you were going and jumped at the sight of Lydia and Alisson wide awake and leaning on the headboard of their shared bed, staring right at you with raised eyebrows and a subtle smirk.

Alisson tilted her head, “So, where were you?” She questioned.

You stuttered for a moment, trying to come up with a convincing lie. “I was just… at the vending machine. Stupid things sucked up my money.” You fake chuckled.

Lydia hummed, “Yeah, it took you 3 hours…” You could practically feel a bead of sweat dripping down your forehead, “Yeah, I had a lot of trouble with it… Anyway, I’m heading to bed-”

“I didn’t know vending machines give you hickeys.” Alisson said, making you freeze and pale.

You opened your mouth but no words came out, “And it has nothing to do with the fact that Scott tried to get back to his room but the sound of moaning probably stopped him from going into the hot box.” Lydia smirked.

You quite literally had no words, “Shit.” You murmured.

Alisson giggled at you, "You realise Coach is gonna kill you two, especially Stiles." You groaned loudly.

The two girls chuckled at you and invited you into their huddle, only insisting you showered first. You laughed along with them and jumped into them, “At least someone had fun on this God awful trip.” Lydia smiled at you before you whacked her with the pillow you were previously leaning on.

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elilovesredacted · 29 days ago

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Alright, some stiles x witch!longtimebestfriend!reader headcanons

(reader should be GN, though if I make a mistake let me know!)

(that title is long af)

- You guys had been together from diapers, your mothers having been friends for years.

- And once Scott was in the mix, what a trio you were. They were your boys, your best friends.

- When they got picked on, whether for Scott’s asthma or Stiles’ fast talking, you were there to back them up, glaring at their bullies with your hands on your hips.

- Stiles thinks he started to crush on you from then on, and Scott knows he did.

- On the night of Scott’s turning, you had been at home, working on an art piece. Your phone lit up from a text from Stiles, urging you to open your window.

- This lanky guy fell through said window, mind racing as he relayed everything they had seen.

- You sat and listened to him for most of the night. His ramblings were usually ignored or met with some resistance from others, but never you.

- When Scott’s turning began to bring the supernatural to light in Beacon Hills, your own powers began to surface.

- You had been sitting in English class, mindlessly doodling while trying your best to stay focused. Stiles and Scott sat behind you, whispering about their crazy nights, and what to do about Derek.

- Your eyes began to burn, your head pounding. Everyone in the room is silent, but you can hear voices across the campus in your mind.

- Stiles notices. Of course he does, he knows everything about you. His hand reaches forward to touch your shoulder, calling your name softly.

- Before he can touch you, you let out a pained cry, the entire class turning to stare.

- Both the boys stand up and quickly rush you out of the room, Scott trying his best to let the teacher know that you’re going to the nurse.

- They bring you to the locker rooms, your hands gripping your hair as you continue to hear the innermost thoughts of the teens of Beacon Hills.

- Stiles places you on the ground, turning to Scott and asking him to call his mom.

- The poor boy is terrified, rubbing his hands up and down your arms.

- “Come on, Sparks. Talk to me.”

- The nickname came from the time you almost lit your picnic blanket on fire, trying to light candles for a nighttime picnic with them both.

- You stare at him, trying desperately to hear him.

- “S-Stiles..”

- “I’m right here, promise.”

- You try to count the moles on his face, not that you needed to. You knew the number.

- When his voice entered your mind, it was soft, almost like a wave crashing over you.

- Please be okay, please be okay, i’m here, i’m here Y/N, you’re gonna be okay..

- Hearing the panic rising in his mind, your reached out and gripped his hand, tugging him to sit next to you.

- The boy flailed alittle, before wrapping you in his arms and rocking you slowly.

- When you began to hear less and less, you started explaining what had happened, your eyes trying to focus on his.

- “What the hell is going on, Stiles..”

- He held your face gently, rubbing his thumb over your cheekbone.

- “I promise you, I will help you figure it out. You’ve got me, and Scott, and we’re gonna be right here.”

- You leaned into his touch before burying your head into his neck, breathing in his cologne and gripping his flannel.

- If you could have seen his face, you’d see how unbelievably excited he was to have you cuddled up with him, his hands shaking lightly as he rubbed your back.

- Whatever journey you were going to go on, he would be with you all the way.

I hope you enjoyed, if you want me to continue this please let me know!

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sarcasm-and-stiles · 11 months ago

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Stiles: In my defense, I was left unsupervised.

Scott: Wasn't Y/N with you?

Y/N: In my defense, I was also left unsupervised.

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bakerydoll · 26 days ago

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stiles kisses you everytime like it's the last time he'll ever do it. there's no such thing as pecks or quick goodbye kisses. it's doubled if it's a pack mission. he's holding your face in both of his hands, deepening the kiss to the point of being breathless. his lips are pillowly soft yet his kisses were always firm. he kissed with confidence even though he often lacked it. it's the kind of kiss that leaves you wanting more and wishing you had more time.

stiles’ paranoia bites at him constantly. his one and only resolve, if he dies today at least he could say, he got a good kiss from the love of his life. everytime he's fighting the big bad, what keeps him going is knowing he'll come home to you.

#SORRY I LOVE HIM #stiles x reader #stiles stilinski drabble #stiles stilinski imagine #stiles stllinski #stiles stilinski #stiles stilinski x reader #stiles x y/n #stiles x you #stiles stilinski fluff #stiles stilinski blurb #stiles stilinksi x reader #stiles stilinksi fanfiction #stiles stilinksi imagine #stiles fluff #જ⁀➴ fauna’s fics 🍨

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xoxostiles · 2 months ago

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| MOODBOARD |

Dating Stiles Stilinski…. Would include….

Supporting him in lacrosse even if he just sits on the bench…

Movie nights - Netflix and chill?

Acting like an old married couple

Embarrassing weird nicknames cause you guys think it’s funny

He gets very jealous if you talk to boys he doesn’t like, mainly just Theo

You being jealous of his past crush on Lydia, that leading to your first fight then your first I love you

Not big on PDA but will hold your hand and give you a peck on the lips, but in public he’s not down to full on make-out in the school hallways, like eww

Okay hear me out, nerds fuck the hardest trust it’s all that built up academic stress

Have you no walking for dayssssssss

Innocent showers + dirty ones

Sleeping skin to skin after sex

Best after-care ever trust

The pack being annoyed with you guys constantly being M.I.A

Just all around cute ness.

———————————— 💋 ———————————

Xoxo Layla, 💋 <3.

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darkintothedawn · 3 days ago

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DAY ONE || Stiles Stilinski 'Teen Wolf'

Pairing — Stiles Stilinski x Gender Neutral reader

Summary — Day one of 'THE BOYFRIEND CODE'. Stiles goes out with you and a couple friends to the new fun fair at Beacon Hills. But after you all split up Stiles takes it upon himself to have as much fun with you as he can and you take it upon yourself to break his very first rule.

1. Thou shalt not steal the last curly fry without proper negotiations.

Memo— You can find the rest of the 'THE BOYFRIEND CODE' here.

Word Count — 2199

Warnings — Fluff. Making out.

The funfair had rolled into Beacon Hills overnight, setting up in the empty parking lot just past the edge of town in record speed. Stiles had practically dragged you over there the moment it opened, rattling off how it was the "perfect place for a quintessential date experience." Scott, Alisson, and Lydia had tagged along, through the group had quickly splintered off once you arrived. Lydia had gone off to find some funnel cake, Scott and Allison disappeared somewhere around the Ferris wheel, and you… well, you ended up alone Ans stuck with Stiles.

Not that you were complaining.

The fair was alive with colour and noise, the smell of fried dough and cotton candy hanging heavy in the air as Stiles tugged you through the crowds. Lights flashed in vibrant reds and blues, kids screamed on nearby rides, and the hum of carnival games and pop music blended into a chaotic symphony. But despite the buzz around you, your focus kept drifting back to him.

Stiles had been giddy all day, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as he tried to decide what to do next. His excitement was contagious, his smile so wide it made your cheeks hurt just looking at him. And while he was focused on the games, the rides, and the fair's endless array of sugary snacks, you were focused on him—the way his hand stayed firmly wrapped around yours, his thumb occasionally brushing against your skin, the way he leaned in close to point out things he wanted to try.

It wasn't long before the stolen moments began to add up. The lingering touches, the soft brushed of his lips against your temple or cheek when he thought no one was looking, the way he'd pull you in closer when he won you something. He'd tug you closer every chance he got—whether it was an arm around your shoulders as you wandered through the fairground or a quick squeeze of your waist as he steered you away from a particularly aggressive clown trying to sell balloon animals.

And you weren't exactly subtle, either. When he'd won you a ridiculously oversized bear at the rig toss, you'd kissed him right there in front of everyone. It wasn't much more than a soft and gentle kiss but it left him pink-faced and grinning for the next ten minutes.

Now the two of you had drifted further from the rest of the group, weaving your way through the smaller side attractions. You weren't even trying to find the others at this point—Scott had texted Scott had texted Stiles a vague "we're good, don't wait for us" twenty minutes ago, and that was all the encouragement Stiles needed to focus entirely on you.

"You know," he said, his hand slipping into yours once again as he led you towards a row of food stalls, "We could just ditch them entirely. Make this a real date. No werewolves, no hunters, no banshees, no murdery supernatural weirdness. Just you, me, and an alarming amount of greasy fried food."

"Tempting," you teased, giving his hand a squeeze and bringing it up to your lips for a quick peck. "But I think Scott might actually cry if we leave without saying goodbye."

"Scott's a big boy," Stiles replied, grinning. "He'll survive. Besides…" He stopped suddenly, tugging you to a halt beside one of the brightly lit stalls. He turned to face you, his eyes softening as his free hand reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind you ears. His hand faltered for a second afterwards, clearly not wanting to move away just yet so you leaned into it. "I kind of like having you all to myself."

Before you could respond, he leaned in and pulled you closer with his hand on your cheek, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips. The fairground seemed to blur around you for a moment as the kiss deepened ever so slightly, the noise and lights fading as his hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you even closer. When he finally pulled away, his lips still barely brushing against yours, he smirked, licking his lips and subsequently teasing yours.

"Was that too much?" He asked, his voice low and teasing.

"No," you replied breathlessly, a small smile growing on your lips. "It was definitely perfect."

"Good," he murmured, stealing another quick kiss before lacing both hands with yours. "Now, come on. I saw a stall back there selling deep-fried curly fries, and I feel like we need to make some terrible decisions together." He spun you back into his side, his hands dropping from yours in favour of wrapping one of them around your waist.

Laughing, you let him lead you further into the maze of flashing lights and carnival chaos, your heart feeling light as you got lost in his touch, his smile, and the simple joy of just being with him.

The curly fry stand grew impossibly harder to resist as you grew closer to it, the pull of it almost magnetic. Stiles had almost sprinted to it the second you'd both set off. The golden spiral of fried perfection on someone else's plate encouraging his speed. Now, the two of you sat on a bench just far enough from the crowds to give you some semblance of privacy while still being surrounded by the fair's chaotic energy.

The pile of curly fries on the tray between you was already shrinking exponentially, thanks to Stiles' total lack of self-control and your mutual enthusiasm for greasy carnival fried—specifically curly fries, of course.

"Okay, this is heaven," Stiles declared around a mouthful of fries. "Like, if heaven isn't endless curly fries and you, especially you, I'm suing."

You snorted in response, shaking you head and motioning for him to chew his food as you plucked a particularly long curly fry from the tray. "Heaven might not be greasy, Stiles."

"Blasphemy," he replied, narrowing his eyes. "Now, feed me. Like the queen I am."

Rolling your eyes and huffing out a laugh, you leaned in and held the fry up to his lips, trying not to bellow out a laugh as he made an exaggerated biting motion and missed completely. Partly due to his terrible aiming and partly due to you moving it away from him ever so slightly.

"Stiles, stop," you laughed out, pulling your hand back before he could bite your finger. He's done it before and you can't exactly trust him not to do it again.

"No, I'm like a majestic shark," he said, leaning forward again, this time catching the fry with his teeth and the tip of your fingers with his lips. "A fry-eating shark. Top of the food chain."

You burst into laughter, wiping a bit of grease from the corner of his mouth with your thumb and licking it clean. "Majestic. Sure. Whatever you say, Stiles."

"You don't appreciate my greatness," he said with a mock pout, tossing a fry toward your mouth. You barely caught it, surprising the both of you, and Stiles quickly cheered like you'd won a gold medal at the Olympics. "That's it! That's my Olympic curly fry catcher!

A breathy laugh escaped you as you told him to "Shut up," throwing one back at him. It bounced off of his nose, and he gasped dramatically, clutching his chest like you'd just insulted not only his honour but also his jeep and father.

"Oh, it's war now," he declared, grabbing a fry and tossing it straight at your mouth. You managed to catch it again, the act easier with your earlier experience. His look of mock indignation melted into unfiltered pride. "Okay, now you're just showing off."

"Maybe a little," you admitted, grinning as you leaned over to press a kiss to his cheek.

Stiles tilted his face towards you at the last second, catching your lips with his instead. His mouth was warm and a little greasy, still tasting faintly of salt and grease, and his hand came to cradle the back of your head, deepening the kiss for just a second before pulling back with a satisfied grin.

"You're ridiculous," you murmured, laughing softly as you swiped another fry from the tray and shoving it into his mouth.

"Ridiculously in love with you," he said without missing a beat, his voice dripping with faux drama as he swallowed the fry.

You rolled your eyes, leaning forward to press another quick kiss to each corner of his mouth. "And I'm just as ridiculously in love with ridiculous you so it works out."

For a moment he didn't say anything, his hand brushing your arm as he leaned closer. The two of you sat like that for a while, trading light, stolen kisses between mouthfuls of fries, the noise of the fair fading into the background.

Then Stiles grabbed one of the longest curly fries from the tray you'd seen yet, holding it up with a gleam in his eyes.

"Okay, okay, new plan. It's genius, trust me," he said, twirling the fry like a wand and wincing when it looked like it was about to snap in half. "We're doing the Lady and the Tramp thing."

"What?" You asked, already laughing at the ridiculous suggestion.

"You know. The pasta thing, but with curly fries." He said, wiggling the fry in your direction.

"Stiles—"

"Come on, just humour me," he said, leaning over the table and holding one end of the fry towards your mouth. His eyes sparkled with mischief, and you couldn't help but smile as you leaned forward and took the other end into your mouth.

Slowly, the two of you chewed your way toward the middle, your laughter muffled around the fry as you made eye contact. When your lips finally met, Stiles immediately deepened the kiss, his hands sliding to cup your cheeks as his lips moved against yours with a little more heat than strictly necessary or appropriate for a public setting.

"Stiles," you whispered against his mouth, pulling back slightly as your hand gripped his collar.

His lips chased after yours even as you tried to create some space between you, a needy and breathless "What?" escaping him when he realised you weren't going to make it easy for him.

"We're in the middle of the fair," you reminded him, your voice soft and amused, carrying it's only subtle undertone of want that he picked up on instantly.

"So?" He whispered back, drawing you in for another kiss.

You managed to stop him with a small smirk, hands now firm against his chest. So, you're not dragging me into a full make out session in front of a curly fry stand with twenty or so families around."

"You're no fun," he said with mock offence in his voice, though the grin tugging at his lips betrayed him.

"Eat your fries, Stilinski," you said, giggling as you reached for another one. But this time, you hesitated, looking down at the tray.

"This is the last one," you said, your tone almost casual as you glanced back at him.

"Wait, wait, wait—" Stiles' eyes widened as realisation dawned onto him like the sun on an early summer's day. "You can't jus take the last fry! That's against the code! You have to negotiate!"

You just grinned, holding the fry just out of his reach. "I'm telling you I'm taking it. Is that not enough of a negotiations?"

"Absolutely not," he said, his tone scandalised.

Before he could say anything else, you leaned forward and kissed him, long and slow, your hand sliding up to cup his jaw as you tongue swiped across his. For a moment, he froze, clearly thrown off by the sudden affection, but then his hands found your nape, pulling you closer to the point you were pressed against the edge of the table. But that wasn't on your min, not with the way he kissed you back with enough enthusiasm to make your head spin.

When you pulled back, his lips were slightly parted, his cheeks flushed as he stared at you like he couldn't decide whether to be annoyed or impressed.

"Not a proper negotiation?" You teased, popping the last fry into your mouth before he could stop you.

He was already shaking his head in disbelief as he spoke, "Not even close. But, okay, fine. You're forgiven. Mostly because that was a really good kiss."

"Good to know," you said, winking as you stood and tugged him to his feet.

He laced his fingers with yours as you began to wander back to the centre of the fair, his thumb brushing against your hand. "New rule," he said after a moment, glancing down at you with a crooked grin. "Thou shalt never steal a curly fry without a kiss bribe."

"Noted." You squeezed his hand and brought it to your lips for one last quick kiss. "Though I can't promise I won't break it again."

Stiles laughed, pulling you closer as the two of you disappeared back into the chaos of the fair, smiles wider and hearts lighter than they had been in ages.

#stiles stilinski #stiles stilinski x reader #stiles stilinski x reader fluff #gender neutral reader #stiles stilinski fluff #the boyfriend code

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stilinskibaby · 1 year ago

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brother's best friend.

PAIRING : stiles stilinski x mccall!reader.

CONTENT : fluff ๑ angst ๑ smut

it started out as a childhood crush, as most longterm infatuations do. you couldn't have been older than four when you met stiles, your stiles. he was missing his front tooth and he spoke with a lisp.

he was wildly loud and animated and you know when you're a kid and you think a boy is so cute that you're sure there's hearts in your eyes. he spoke of playing dragons and knights with scott, “oh! and you can be the princess.”

it was a memory that you kept crawling back to, a time much simpler than now. you could have let out a cold laugh, now you were in constant fear of your life, scott’s life, stiles’ life. it wasn't anything you couldn't handle but you wished for the times when all you had to worry about was your silly schoolgirl crush on stiles.

today was surprisingly quiet, just defeating peter and dealing with the deadpool, you were tired. all of you were, but you kept an eye open just on the off chance that something would try to kill one of your friends.

you stared at your reflection in the mirror, and dotted some concealer under your eyes, anything to make it look like you got some sleep last night. you didn't have scott’s powers to fall back on, nor lydia’s intelligence and intuition. everyday you wondered if you'd be another human lost in the fight against the preternatural.

you tried to wipe the thoughts from your head before walking down the main hall of the high school, stiles stood leaning against his locker while your brother talked about god knows what.

you walked up to the two of them and tried to act normal. like stiles isn't a whole foot away from you, like his cologne isn't enough to make your knees quiver, like every little wink, smile and joke doesn't make you wanna beg him to love you.

you'd been dealing with this crush for as long as you have memories, it should be easier by now. it seemed like lately though, it was getting harder. almost like he was purposefully invading all your thoughts.

“helllloooo?” you came back to the present because of stiles’ voice and scott's hand waving in front of your face. your skin warmed from the embarrassment of getting caught zoning out.

“what? sorry, I'm just tired,” you sighed, seemingly having said that alot recently. but dealing with what you can only assume to be a unrequited crush is tiring. especially when that crush happens to be on your brother's best friend.

stiles eyes squinted with disbelief. if there was one thing you hated about the boy, it was his ability to tell when anyone was lying.

“right, anyways,” scott continued eyeing you from the corner of his eyes but you were already zoning out again.

your day continued on like that, just skating by with your mind constantly drifting back to stiles. it felt almost like you were cursed, your brain almost short circuiting whenever you tried to think of literally anything else.

before you knew it, as if on airplane mode you found yourself walking out the doors towards the jeep. since scott started working at the clinic, you'd just been riding home with stiles. and due to the supernatural nature of your life, it's easier this way.

you climbed into the jeep and tried to keep a semblance of calm. stiles scent was invading your nostrils, with his lacrosse gear in the back seat and him sitting directly next to you. a soft song played on the radio, and if your emotions weren't getting the best of you ; you'd romanticize the man before you.

you were almost never quiet when left alone with stiles, it almost like you don't know how to shut up when around him. so the silence filling the jeep was becoming a bit much even for the hyperactive mind of stiles stilinski.

“you sure you're okay, sunshine?” his hand awkwardly patted your leg. stiles has been calling you sunshine forever, it's yours-and-his special little thing and even when you feel like the world is crushing you, it still gives you butterflies.

you had be around ten, you sat on the bus one seat in front of stiles and scott. stiles was talking mindlessly about lydia ( 12 year olds and their crushes ). and some kid was in the seat in front of you talking about how weird you were. being just a kid, you were almost to tears until stiles heard what the unkind words sprouted from the kid’s mouth.

“you don't even know what you're talking about! she's like sunshine.”

you found yourself blushing and feeling embarrassed, just for the kid to start making fun of you and stiles.

you let the silence hang a bit longer, trying to buy some time to tell a somewhat believable lie. the jeep came to a stop in front of stiles’ house. your eyebrows knit together trying to remember if there was some prior agreement that you forgot about.

“i think i know exactly what you need!” stiles spoke excitedly, and your heart felt like it was gonna fall out of your chest.

“a-and what's that?” you tried to convey a sarcastic tone but your voice shook as spoke. you prayed to whoever was listening that he didn't notice.

his eyes scanned your face as if trying to pry into your mind and it would give him all the answers. “movie night! i know we haven't done one in forever, but i think it'll help get your mind off whatever is bothering you. I know scott is usually here for this,” he sighed a little and rubbed the back of his neck.

your heart warmed, you couldn't believe the absolute kindness this boy had to offer. though every moment around him, was a kick to ego and a kiss for your heart.

“thank you, stiles,” his hand still awkwardly sat on your thigh, burning a metaphorical hole through your jeans.

he grinned that big smile, the one where his whole face turns into pure joy. it took everything in you not to just kiss him right there. and right as you began to get the courage he pops open his door and falls out the jeep. you chuckled to yourself bitterly.

you followed him into his room where you plopped yourself down on the bed. “so what's on tonight, star wars again?” you giggled as you watched him fumble through his dvds.

“actually, i rented heathers last night just for you, i know it's your favorite!” this boy was going to kill you.

and just like old times, he made popcorn and let you lay on his chest. you thought you might throw up. watching your favorite film, with the biggest crush of your life and it started to feel like you were suffocating.

you sat up anxiously, leaning against the wall, stiles’ head lazily rolled to the side, watching your every move.

“stiles,” your voice shook, your lips quivered and you were rubbing your hands intensely.

“hey! woah, hey, it's okay, whatever it is, it's okay, what's got you so upset? did you kill someone or something?” he tried to joke and relieve the tension and at this moment you think that might be an easier conversation.

“no, no, nothing like that,” the Perception of rejection was getting to you, an anvil falling on your heart. you laughed bitterly, “actually, now it feels so dumb. i just, stiles, i-i love you. i love you so much and i cant, i tried to swallow it and for a while that worked,” you were basically sobbing now eyes closed and lip shaking and you were about to lose your breath.

“but i can't, and I can't keep pretending i dont, but it's killing me and that feels dramatic but please, please don't hate me.” he knew this was very serious for you, a girl that almost never let anyone see her cry. amd he didn't mean to, and he feels so bad for it but he laughs, it just thr awkwardness that's in his bones.

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry, please I didn't mean to laugh, but i guess it just seems so silly to me that you wouldn't just tell me or someone and let it get so bad.” he pauses almost like he's trying to find his words. and all you can think about is running, running as fast as you can but his hand is on your leg and you'd feel so bad for it.

“i can't believe you could be so oblivious, I've been trying to hint to you for years now that i felt the same,” you didn't let him finish his sentence instead, doing what you've always wanted to do : kiss him. your lips mold together perfectly, you felt so far away, like you were in a dream.

the dream felt more hazy, when his hands find your hips and pull you into his lap. you can feel his cock hardened underth you, restrained by his jeans. you grind against and whimper into his mouth.

“stiles, stiles if you don't do something right now,” your words were breathless, somewhere between a whimper and a whine. his fingers move quickly to undo his jeans, while you shed yourself of everything but your bra and panties. you always wore cute panties in a secret way to manifest this happening.

as soon as he has you below, his hands are moving to grope your tits, he groans, eyes scanning every inch of your body, trying to commit every part of you to memory.

“fuck, you're so pretty, baby.” his words go straight to your core, warm, wet and clenching around nothing. you're thoughtless, the only thing left in your mind is him, so you just whine.

his fingers trace around your hips and slide your thong to the side to get a view of your beautiful cunt.

“you ready?” you nod, and he shakes his head, as if a new man. “say it,” as his hands slide over every part of your body except where you need him most.

“m ready, please stiles need you, need your cock. please, please” you were practically begging so pumped himself a few times before sheathing his full length into your cunt. it's so deliciously painful.

“mm such a good girl, taking me so well,” he pressed his lips against your forehead in a long kiss. before giving you long thick strokes, ans his hand reaching between you to rub little circles onto your clit. you were seeing white as continued to fuck you, your fingernails scraping against his pale skin.

his teeth gritted as he moaned, trying so hard to hold back. “m close, please please.” you whined and he fucked you faster, and harder. rough groans falling out of his lips.

your climax was closing in on your, your nails skating harder against him, your legs closing in around his hips. you basically screamed your orgasm out against stiles neck. he chuckled to himself, proud he could do all this. he funally let go, fucking you both through your climaxes. and keeping his now soft cock in your cunt, to keep his cum in you. thank god for birth control.

#scout.fic #stiles stilinski fanfiction #stiles smut #teen wolf stiles #stiles stilinski #stiles stilinksi fanfiction #stiles stilinksi imagine #stiles stilinksi x reader #stiles stilinski smut #stiles stilinski x reader #stiles x reader #stiles stilinski drabble #stiles stilinski fic #stiles stilinski imagine #stiles stilinksi smut #stiles stilinski fluff #stiles stilinski angst #stiles stilinski x mccall!reader #stiles teen wolf

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